The  RIALTO  Series.       Vol.  i,  No.  25.       May,  1890.      Monthly.      Subscription  $8.00  a  year. 
Entered  as  second-class  matter  at  the  Post  Office,  Chicago,  111.,  Feb.  16,  1889. 


Fabian  Dimitry. 


BY 


• 


r 


FAW(!ETT. 


RAND,    McNALLY    &    COMPANY, 

CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK. 


FABIAN  DIMITRY. 


FABIAN  DIMITRY 


EDGAR  FAWCETT, 

AUTHOR    OF 

THE  EVIL  THAT  MEN  Do,"  "OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE,"ETC. 


CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK: 
RAND,  MCNALLY  &  COMPANY.  PUBLISHERS. 

1890. 


COPYRIGHT  1890,  BY  RAND,  MCNALLY  &  Co.,  CHICAGO. 


TO   LILIAN    WHITING, 
IN   APPRECIATION   OF   HER  NOBLE   AND   WOMANLY 

INTELLECT,    HER   LOFTY   IDEALS, 
AND   HER   VALUED   ENCOURAGEMENTS. 

New  York,  January,  1890. 


2061739 


FABIAN  DIMITRY. 


1. 

Who  has  not  seen  the  multicolored  lights 
of  the  Alhambra  flame  in  Leicester  Square 
from  the  gloom  of  a  London  evening?  Almost 
every  third  American  whom  one  meets,  it 
might  now  be  answered,  in  these  days  when 
the  awful  sweep  of  ocean  from  New  York  to 
Liverpool  has  become  like  the  trivial  terrors 
of  a  swollen  brook.  Still,  by  early  November, 
there  are  few  transatlantic  theatre-goers 
remaining  in  "the  gray  metropolis  of  the 
North."  Either  they  have  all  sped  home 
again  across  those  heaving  marine  leagues 
which  they  contemn  so  magnificently,  or  they 
have  drifted  to  the  south  of  Europe  in 
search  of  that  clement  thermometer  which 
they  rarely  find  above  the  toe  of  the  Italian 
boot. 

(5) 


6  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

Ray  Eninger,  though  an  American,  had 
not  migrated  from  London  at  all,  much  as 
he  detested  tawny  fogs  and  vacillant  rain- 
spirts.  He  had  found  himself  in  the  region 
of  Piccadilly  at  about  nine  o'clock,  and  had 
half  made  up  his  mind  to  seek  a  book  and 
a  hearth-blaze  at  his  easeful  Jermyn  Street 
lodgings.  But  great  vapors  that  had  hid 
the  sun  all  day  had  now  rolled  frqm  a  sky 
full  of  soft  yet  keen  stars,  whose  silver  peace 
mocked  the  turbulence  below  them.  Eninger 
had  passed  the  glare  of  the  Criterion  and  the 
Pavilion  with  a  sense  of  gaining  some  sort  of 
real  repose  both  for  eye  and  ear  a  little 
further  on.  But  though  Leicester  Square 
was  in  a  way  quieter,  with  its  lines  of  drowsy 
cabs  and  its  heavy  central  masses  of  shadow, 
the  two  huge  luminiferous  theatres  which 
presently  rose  before  him  were  but  aggressive 
repetitions  of  the  structures  he  had  already 
left  behind  him.  The  Empire  he  had  always 
thought  peculiarly  and  British! y  vulgar.  The 
Alhambra  he  had  not  visited  in  several  years, 
and  a  caprice  to  do  so  here  assailed  him 
with  such  an  unforeseen  suddenness  that  he 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  7 

indolently  yielded  to  it.  He  had  no  sooner 
strolled  past  its  radiant  portals,  however,  than 
he  became  the  prey  of  a  bored  feeling.  ' '  Eng- 
land is  a  man's  country,"  somebody  had 
said  to  him  not  long  ago,  and  he  had  never 
more  clearly  seen  the  truth  of  this  bold 
phrase  than  just  here  and  now.  The  women 
present  were  presumably  not  all  of  a  lax 
trend.  Some  were,  as  a  glance  at  them  told 
you  while  you  observed  them  strolling  unes- 
corted through  the  arabesqued  and  sumpt- 
uous lobbies;  but  others  had  not  their  brassy 
stamp,  and  might,  for  all  one  knew,  be 
seated  beside  their  true  lords  with  whom 
they  had  come  hither  from  chaste  homes  in 
Brompton  or  Chelsea.  And ,  yet  the  men 
ungallantly  clouded  the  air  with  smoke,  or 
drank  from  little  shelf-like  stands  in  front 
of  them  the  potions  of  clubs  and  taverns. 
It  was  a  splendid,  even  a  patrician  interior. 
Its  immensity  invited  the  roving  eye,  which 
lit  on  nothing  tawdry,  on  much  that  was 
artistic.  The  ballet  then  in  course  of  prog- 
ress might  have  shamed  our  own  Niblo's 
Garden  at  its  finest.  It  seemed  as  if  the 


FABIAX    DIMITRY. 

stage  could  hold  no  more  of  spectacular  and 
processional  pomp,  whereupon  new  lanes  of 
light  would  burn  among  its  amazons  and  bac- 
chantes as  new  phalanxes  of  bright-clad 
shapes  came  marching  from  viewless  lairs. 
The  entire  scale  of  the  entertainment  was 
so  fine  and  distinguished,  in  spite  of  its 
commonness  as  mere  drama,  that  Eninger 
asked  himself  why  drink  and  tobacco  should 
be  permitted  thus  to  flout  and  cheapen  its 
handsome  smartness.  He  had  bought  a 
stall  but  did  not  choose  to  take  it.  He  kept 
wandering  hither  and  thither,  with  half  a 
mind  to  drop  in  rumination  on  one  of  the 
velvet  lounges  and  half  a  mind  to  wander 
forth  again  below  the  inconstant  London 
stars.  People  passed  and  repassed  him,  but 
he  scarcely  noted  their  faces,  irritated  with 
himself  for  having  let  his  feet  stroll  where 
all  men  and  women  must  of  necessity  be 
strangers.  He  was  a  man  marked  among 
his  friends  for  an  excessive  nicety  and  fas- 
tidiousness. He  had  been  called,  both  in 
New  York  and  London,  a  snob,  yet  unjustly 
when  all  was  said.  The  Alhambra  now 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  9 

emphasized  for  him  a  rawness  of  life  from 
which  he  shrank  and  had  always  shrunk. 
Possessed  of  a  fairly  generous  income,  hav- 
ing chosen  the  career  of  a  physician  from 
desire  rather  than  need,  being  endowed  with 
a  tall,  trim  shape  and  a  visage  blond,  deli- 
cate though  virile,  equipped  with  a  charm  of 
tactful  mien  and  talk  not  usual  among  men 
of  even  the  older  races,  he  had  shone  a  kind 
of  social  star  in  circles  where  he  had  not 
sought  to  push  entrance  yet  whose  reigning 
powers  had  welcomed  him  on  terms  of  pecu- 
liar flattery  and  acclaim.  Not  long  ago,  at 
one  of  the  great  English  country-houses, 
he  had  committed  what  now  remorsefully 
pierced  him  as  an  act  of  dismal  folly.  A 
certain  Lady  Beatrice  Brashleigh,  daughter  of 
an  earl  and  niece  of  a  duke,  had  won  him, 
with  the  blue  of  her  big  eyes  and  the  music 
of  her  suave  voice,  into  an  avowal  of  passion. 
Lady  Beatrice  did  not,  by  any  riieans,  fix  a 
vacant  stare  on  the  presumptuous  American 
or  endeavor  to  slay  him  with  her  noble  birth. 
She  simply  burst  into  tears  and  murmured 
something  about  papa  objecting;  and  soon 


10  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

Eninger  had  found  out  that  papa  did  seri- 
ously object.  His  transatlantic  origin  was  not 
a  chief  drawback  to  the  match,  for  the  earl 
was  by  no  means  a  rich  peer  and  Lady  Beat- 
rice had  a  bevy  of  sisters.  But  for  an  Amer- 
ican suitor  Eninger*could  not  make  meaning 
enough  settlements.  Such  a  marriage  as  that, 
declared  his  lordship,  must  have  a  heavy 
golden  reason  for  being.  In  the  case  of  En- 
inger it  was  golden,  but  not  sufficiently  heavy. 
He  left  Brashleigh  House  one  misty  Sep- 
tember morning,  and  fancied  that  as  he  cast 
an  upward  look  at  its  ivied  stonework  he 
caught  one  vague  glimpse  of  a  maiden' s  pale 
and  tear-stained  face.  But  the  vision  did  not 
haunt  him  long.  What  haunted  him  much 
longer  was  the  cut,  the  sting  that  had  been 
dealt  his  pride.  He  had,  after  all,  been  in 
love  with  Lady  Beatrice  more  through 
imagination  than  heart.  He  had  liked  that 
historic  perfume  which  hovered  about  her 
surroundings  with  so  much  of  the  delightful 
tenacity  of  tradition.  Still,  he  now  recalled 
his  past  acquaintance  with  her  rather  in  the 
liii'lit  of  an  escape  than  a  sorrow. 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  11 

"  I  shouldn't  have  known  what  to  do  with 
her  after  I'd  got  her/'  he  had  mused. 
"  Sooner  or  later  I  mean  hard  work  as  a 
physician,  and  New  York  shall  no  doubt  be 
the  scene  of  my  labors.  How  absurd  it 
would  have  looked  over  there,  that  '  Dr.  and 
Lady  Beatrice  Eninger!'  And  yet  she  might 
have  clung  to  her  title  always,  for  she  was 
proud  of  it  though  ever  so  fond  of  me." 

For  some  time,  this  evening,  Eninger  sat 
on  one  of  the  velvet  lounges  and  watched,  at 
either  of  the  large  buffets  which  his  vision 
was  able  to  command,  that  extraordinary 
capacity  of  the  English  theatre-goer  for  pour- 
ing down  fiery  fluids.  The  first  impression 
of  respectful  novelty  which  even  the  average 
Londoner  can  produce  in  his  kinsman  over- 
sea had  long  ago  lost  its  force  with  Eninger. 
He  was  used  to  all  the  different  "types,"  of 
whichever  sex,  and  extremely  fatigued 
with  most  of  them.  "How  peculiarly  and 
specially  vulgar,"  he  caught  himself  think- 
ing, "  a  vulgar  London  crowd  is  able  to  ap- 
pear!" .  .  and  then,  in  a  flash  of  discovery, 
he  saw  the  man  who  of  all  others  living  he 


12  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

would  have  held  too  refined  and  fastidious 
to  pass  the  lintels  of  a  place  like  this. 

"  Why,  Fabian!"  he  exclaimed,  and 
sprang  up  from  his  seat,  seizing  the  arm  of 
the  stroller.  Then,  as  a  smile  of  recognition 
answered  him,  he  went  on  with  vehemence: 
"  What  on  earth  brings  you  here?" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  England,  my  dear 
Ray?'1  replied  the  other,  with  a  voice 
exquisitely  soft  and  yet  somehow  not  of  the 
quality  one  would  call  womanish.  He  had, 
however,  limpid  brown  eyes  which  many  a 
woman  might  have  envied  him,  and  round 
his  pure-cut,  beardless  lips  lingered  the 
double  spell  of  sweetness  and  intellectuality. 

Eninger  slipped  a  hand  within  his  friend's 
arm.  "  Oh,  I  meant,"  he  said,  "  this  great, 
smart,  beastly  place.  Come  and  sit  down 
for  a  minute."  He  turned  to  look  after  his 
former  seat  but  perceived  that  it  was  occu- 
pied. He  soon  glimpsed  a  distant  table, 
however,  and  drew  his  friend  toward  it  with 
an  insistent  warmth  which  bore  odd  contrast 
to  his  former  languor.  The  table  was  small, 
and  as  they  sat  down  beside  it  he  resumed 


FABIAN    DIMfTRY.  13 

merrily:  "Let's  drink  something.  Every- 
body is  drinking  something,  I  observe.  And 
a  cigarette — you'll  like  these,  I  think; 
they're  a  trifle  rare.  So  the  ballet  hired 
you?  Well,  it  is  good,  what  I've  seen  of  it. 
Why  under  heavens  didn't  I  know  you  were 
in  London,  Fabian?  Have  you  been  here  a 
long  time?" 

' '  Nearly  a  year. ' ' 

"  Nearly  a  year!"  echoed  Eninger.  "  Fan- 
cy!" he  pursued,  unconscious,  no  doubt, 
of  the  anglicism.  "This  town  is  such  a 
monstrous  maze,  isn't  it?  Twin  brothers 
could  live  here  for  an  age  within  the 
throw  of  a  stone  from  one  another,  and 
yet  never  meet." 

"  Quite  true,"  acceded  Fabian. 

' '  And  the  last  time  we  met  was  about  two 
years  ago  at  one  of  those  semi-literary  even- 
ing pow-wows  which  they  give  so  badly  in 
New  York." 

"  Yes;  I  remember." 

Eninger  glanced  at  him  sharply.  "My 
dear  Fabian,"  he  said,  "  you're  not  like  your 
old  self." 


14  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

Fabian  smiled,  and  his  face,  beautiful  and 
poetic  without  a  smile,  drew,  when  thus 
illumined,  a  soft,  pleased  cry  from  his  com- 
panion. 

"Ah,  that's  more  like  you!"  exclaimed 
Eninger.  Then,  as  the  smile  faded,  he  went 
on:  ''You  once  had  such  glorious  spirits. 
What's  tamed  them — or  who?" 

"Who?"  repeated  Fabian,  while  he 
drooped  the  brown  eyes,  dark-lashed  and 
lucid,  that  burned  from  his  oval  face. 

"Does  my  interrogative  pronoun  bore 
you?"  said  Eninger;  and  he  lifted  to  his 
lips  the  glass  which  a  waiter  had  just  filled 
for  him.  "  I  do  hope  you  haven't  forgotten, 
dear  boy,  what  tremendous  chums  we  once 
were  at  Harvard." 

"  Indeed  I  haven't,  Ray!" 

They  looked  at  one  another  in  silence  for  a 
little  spare.  "You're  going  to  account  for 
yourself,"  announced  Eninger,  terminating 
the  odd  pause.  "You're  going  to  tell  me 
something." 

"Well,  perhaps." 

"We  ought  to  have  written  one  another, 


FABIAX    DIMITRY.  15 

Fabian.  It's  been  a  horrid  shame  that  we've 
drifted  out  of  our  nice  fraternal  habit  of  cor- 
respondence. Probably  the  fault  was  mine 
— but  no  matter  whose  it  was.  If  we  had 
exchanged  letters  through  all  these  months 
I  might — well,  I  might  have  given  you  an 
appreciable  plot  for  one  of  your  plays.  Or 
have  you  renounced  the  making  of  plays 
altogether?" 

Fabian  slowly  shook  his  head,  with  what 
struck  Eninger  as  a  subtle  melancholy  in  the 
motion.  "]N"o,  Ray,  not  quite;  I  suppose  I 
shall  always  go  on  groping  a  little  along  that 
line.  It's  all  I  ever  could  do,  you  know." 

"But  for  the  present  you've  neglected 
your  talent?" 

"Yes  .  .  And  so  you've  been  living 
through  a  drama  that  you  think  my  poor 
languid  muse  would  care  for?" 

Eninger  gave  a  curt,  ambiguous  nod. 
"I'm  not  just  sure  of  that,"  he  returned. 
"My  drama  is  of  the  Robertsonian  school — 
plenty  of  small  talk,  a  little  satire,  and 
enough  comedy  to  hide  the  real  tragedy  of 
tears  behind  it.  I've  no  doubt  you'd  think 


16  FABIAN    DIMITKY. 

it  very  flat  and  stale.  But  unless  I'm  wholly 
wrong,  Fabian,  my  opinion  of  yours  would 
be  ever  so  different." 

Fabian  sat  staring  for  some  time  at  the 
glass  whose  contents  he  had  scarcely  tasted. 
At  last  he  gave  a  slight  start  which  made  his 
slender  and  supple  frame  actively  vibrate. 
"Let's  get  out  into  the  streets,"  he  said, 
rising.  ' '  We  can  talk  better  there.  You 
evidently  think  I've  been  having  an  infernal 
sort  of  experience,  Ray.  Does  my  face  tell 
you  so?" 

"By  no  means,"  replied  Eninger,  now  ris- 
ing also.  "  But  it  hints  to  me  that  you're  a 
sadder  man  than  when  I  knew  you  last." 

"Yes — and  in  some  ways  a  wiser  one," 
muttered  Fabian,  below  his  breath,  while 
they  quitted  the  noisy,  smoky,  brilliant 
theatre. 

"Which  way  shall  we  gof  he  added, 
after  they  had  gained  the  refreshing  dusk 
and  coolness  of  Leicester  Square. 

"Whatever  way  you  please,"  Eninger 
answered,  and  soon  he  forgot  all  thought  of 
locality,  his  friend  spoke  to  him  so  fluently, 


FABIAX    DIMITEY.  17 

so  feverishly,  and  yet  with  such  a  potent 
charm. 

"We're  here,  almost  at  her  very  door," 
Fabian  finally  said,  after  they  had  pushed 
their  way  through  a  narrow  street  into  a 
square  whose  drowsy  old  trees  were  mur- 
murous below  a  late-risen  fragment  of  moon. 
"  Ah,  Ray,  think  of  the  dramas  that  a  fellow 
like  me  could  find  hidden  away  among  these 
grim,  ancient  houses!  How  still  they  all  are 
— if  s  the  reticence  of  death,  yet  of  recollec- 
tion, too!  Yonder' s  the  house  where  sJie  lives. 
Seven  or  eight  generations  of  them  have 
lived  and  died  in  it.  They're  poor,  now,  as 
I  told  you.  They  wouldn't  be  spending 
their  days  in  even  so  fascinatingly  pictur- 
esque a  spot  as  this  Lincoln1  s  Irin  Square  if 
poverty  hadn't  held  them  here." 

"  And  yet,"  said  Eninger,  feeling  the  need 
of  some  sort  of  speech,  "you  tell  me  that 
you  met  her  with  her  father  summer  before 
last  off  in  the  Engadine." 

"Oh,  yes.  The  old  Colonel's  bronchitis 
had  got  devilish  during  the  raw  spring. 
They  scraped  up  enough  money  to  take  the 


18  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

trip.  You  see,  there  are  only  two  of  them, 
father  and  daughter;  the}r  can  graze  starva- 
tion without  tumbling  into  it.  Still,  there's 
a  big  mortgage  on  that  little  house,  and  some 
day  the  very  worst  may  happen.  It's  hard, 
Ray,  they're  as  good  blood  as  any  in  Eng- 
land, but  the  last  of  an  impoverished  line. 
I  doubt  if  half  the  grandees  (some  with 
titles  bought  ten  years  ago)  are  even  aware 
they  exist." 

Eninger  stared  into  his  friend's  face,  which 
the  glamour  of  moonlight  seemed  now  to 
invest  with  a  new  repose,  patience  and 
spirituality.  "Alicia  Delamere,"  he  said; 
"it's  a  lovely  name,  certainly.  And  you  say 
that  she —  Here  he  broke  short  off. 
"For  God's  sake,  Fabian."  he  quickly  went 
on,  "why  don't  you  marry  her  and  make  an 
end  of  it?" 

The  sculptural  lips  of  Fabian  tightened 
together  a  little.  "I've  told  you  why."  he 
said. 

Those  words  had  for  his  hearer  a  horrible 
pathos  and  solemnity.  "But  she  loves 
you,"  he  began,  "and — 


FABIAN'    DIMITKY.  19 

"I  think  she  loves  me— yes,  I  feel  inwardly 
certain  of  it,"  struck  in  Fabian. 

"And  you  love  her?" 

"Devotedly." 

"Then  cast  that  scruple  of  yours  to  the 
winds!"  exclaimed  Eninger. 

"Would  you,  in  my  placed"  queried 
Fabian,  grasping  his  arm. 

"  Would  I?"  he  repeated,  staggered  by  the 
question,  as  applied  to  himself.  "But  I've 
never  seen  her — I  don't  love  her." 

"  If  you  did  love  her,"  persisted  Fabian, 
with  eyes  unrelenting,  and  with  hand  that 
did  not  in  the  least  relax. 

"But  I've  never  loved  in  that  way,"w 
returned  Eninger,  with  an  evasive  air  that 
was  perhaps  more  apparent  because  he  strove 
to  hide  it. 

"Ah,  "  said  Fabian,  dropping  his  arm,  yet 
slipping  an  arm  of  his  own  round  Eninger  s 
neck  ;  "I  see  that  you  would  have  just  my 
torturing  hesitancy,  were  you  situated  as  I." 

Together  the  two  friends  quitted  the  moon- 
lit square,  which  was  for  one  of  them  clad 
evermore  in  a  new  spell  of  gloom  and  wist- 


20  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

fulness.  Its  gray  memorials  of  how  men 
fade  and  inanimate  things  remain,  had 
always  for  Eninger  been  pregnant  with  sug- 
gestion; but  now,  at  this  mysterious  moment, 
not  far  from  midnight,  and  under  this  eerie 
moon  of  a  London  autumn,  the  whole  quarter 
(for  reasons  that  chiefly  concerned  his  com- 
panion's late  discourse)  appeared  haunted 
by  the  influence  of  some  grisly  curse. 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  21 


II. 

Nor  did  Eninger  by  any  means  rid  him- 
self of  that  sensation  when  he  paid,  with 
Fabian,  a  visit  to  the  Delameres  on  the  fol- 
lowing day.  The  small  house  in  Lincoln's 
Inn  Square  was  no  less  shabby  within  than 
grimy  without,  but  Alicia  Delamere  lighted 
its  dinginess  as  a  buttercup  lights  a  dingle. 
She  had  hair  almost  as  golden  as  that  flower, 
and  so  white  a  throat  that  it  made  the  ardent 
yet  velvety  blue  of  her  eyes  burn  all  the 
more  deliciously  keen.  Her  figure,  however, 
as  Eninger  soon  told  himself,  was  by  no 
means  a  perfection  of  moulding,  although 
lissome  and  graceful,  while  her  deportment 
betokened  neither  the  air  de  race  nor  the 
simple  equipments  of  ordinary  tact  and  finish. 
Watching  her  with  the  cold  eye  of  criticism, 
he  pronounced  her  manners  almost  piteously 
deficient.  She  had  pretty  hands,  but  was 
forever  moving  them  about,  like  an  embar- 


22  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

rassed  child;  she  would  smile  naturally  one 
minute  and  artificially  the  next;  her  post- 
ures, whether  she  sat  or  stood,  were  one 
perpetual  bashful  unrest.  And  yet  it  soon 
began  to  dawn  upon  Eninger  that  she  was 
irresistibly  charming.  It  was  not  that  he 
grew  to  approve  her,  but  rather  that  he  took 
a  secret  pleasure  in  watching  her  defects. 
She  was  not  at  all  like  an  English  girl,  nor 
yet  like  an  American  :  she  had  far  too  little 
gravity  for  the  first  and  far  too  much  reserve 
for  the  last.  Eninger  got  rapidly  to  be  fond 
of  watching  her;  she  made  him  think  of  a 
briar-rose  in  a  breeze,  of  a  little  ruffled 
brook  between  fringes  of  cresses.  Her  wild- 
ing sort  of  demureness  refreshed  him  after 
the  correct  repose  of  Lady  Beatrice.  Then, 
too,  there  was  a  pathos  in  her  shyness.  For 
had  not  Fabian  told  him  that  her  mother  had 
died  when  the  dug  was  at  her  baby  lip,  and 
did  not  this  gaunt,  sour  old  spectre  of  a 
father  look  as  though  he  could  no  more  rear 
a  delicate  young  daughter  than  stand  on  his 
bullet-shaped,  grizzled  head? 

It  struck  the  new-comer  as  the  head  of  a 


FABIAX    DIMITKY.  23 

possibly  stupid  man,  and  he  soon  learned 
that  he  had  rightly  judged  it.  But  Colonel 
Delamere  was  not  simply  stupid.  He  at 
once  fixed  a  fishy,  viscous  eye  on  Eninger, 
and  paid  him  all  the  court  that  his  ab- 
surdly stiff  deportment  permitted  him  to 
proffer.  He  was  a  man  who  in  earlier  life 
had  been  very  arrogant,  and  after  the  fashion 
of  arrogance  that  we  sometimes  may  see  full- 
blown in  the  military  Englishman.  He  had 
never  known  just  how  to  bend  his  back,  even 
when  the  iron  goad  of  penury  smote  it — 
though  indeed  there  had  been  a  good  deal  of 
bending  with  him,  as  many  knew.  But 
after  Eninger  had  become,  during  the  next 
fortnight  or  so,  a  confirmed  visitor  at  his  dis- 
mal old  domicile,  he  showed  signs  of  soci- 
ality, rare  with  him  as  imprudence  in  a 
weasel. 

Meanwhile,  on  one  or  two  occasions,  Fa- 
bian was  surprised  at  finding  his  friend  in  the 
company  of  either  Alicia  or  her  father.  His 
surprise  quickly  wore  off,  however;  for  ha<J 
he  not  made  a  kind  of  tacit  agreement  with 
Enin2;er  that  the  latter  should  observe  the 


24  FABIAX    DIMITRY. 

almost  unique  dolor  of  his  own  situation' 
Not  that  Fabian  looked  for  any  help  from 
his  Mend's  future  counsels.  Alas!  he  had 
more  than  once  meditated,  how  could  there 
be  any  earthly  help  away  from  the  fulfill- 
ment of.  what  he  held  inexorable  duty?  The 
path  was  all  too  frightfully  plain;  Ray  En- 
inger  could  make  it  neither  more  nor  less  so! 

One  evening  he  dropped  into  the  latter' s 
Jermyn  Street  apartments,  with  a  rueful 
white  on  his  cheeks  and  a  glassy  feverish- 
ness  in  his  splendid  brown  eyes.  "Did  you 
not  tell  me,  a  day  or  two  ago,  Ray,"  he 
presently  asked,  "that  you  would  soon  sail 
for  New  York?" 

Eninger  slightly  started.  "I—  I  don't 
remem —  •' '  he  began,  and  then  gave  a  sudden 
acquiescent  nod.  "Oh,  yes;"  he  proceeded, 
"  I  believe  I  did  say  so — carelessly,  that  is." 

Fabian,  whose  eyes  had  sought  the  floor, 
looked  swiftly  up  at  him.  "Oh,"  he  said, 
"then  you  didn't  mean  it?"  His  friend 
made  no  answer,  and  he  went  on:  "I'm 
sorry." 

"  Sorry?"  repeated  Enin.uvr. 


FABIAX    DMITRY.  25 

"  Yes;  I  wanted  to  sail  with  von.  I  thought 
of  the  Bolivia  next  Saturday." 

•*  So  soon  as  that!"  faltered  Eninger.  He 
had  turned  pale,  but  hoped  that  the  ruddy 
fire-shine,  near  which  he  sat  in  slippers  and 
dressing-sacque,  would  guard  his  altered 
hue. 

"Why  do  you  call  it  soonf  murmured 
Fabian.  *•  I  supposed,"  he  added,  sombrely, 
"that  after  all  I  have  told  you  it  would 
strike  you  as  late/' 

Eninger  watched  the  crackling  tire.  "This 
is  decisive,  then,*'  he  said.  "You're  going 
to  give  hemp?" 

"  Ah,  Ray,"'  cried  his  companion, "  haven't 
you  been  sure  all  along  that  I  meant  to  do 
sor 

"No.  I  thought "'  and  there  Eninger 

paused,  still  watching  the  fire. 

Fabian  rose  and  took  a  seat  at  the  side  of 
his  friend.  He  was  tranquil,  and  yet  he 
seemed  somehow  inwardly  to  tremble. 

"  Ray,"  he  began,  *4 1  have  looked  for  the 
last  time  into  the  face  of  these  bitter  facts. 
There  is  no  avoiding  their  moral  meaning  to 


26  FABIAN    DIMITKY. 

a  man  fashioned  like  myself.  If  I  married 
Alicia  Delamere,  I  would  be  perpetuating  a 
curse/' 

Here  Eninger  made  a  gesture  which  his 
observer  may  wrongly  have -read,  for  Fabian, 
even  while  he  noted  it,  stoutly  pursued: 

"  Yes,  a  curse!  You  know  that,  Ray — 
you  must  know  it,  and  feel  it  as  I.  We're 
neither  of  us  believers,  as  the  trick  of  the 
phrase  goes.  We'  re  not  religionists ;  we  don' t 
do  right  with  a  sense  of  pay  to  come  after 
the  grave' s  got  us  into  its  dark  maw.  But 
even  if  death  end  all  for  the  individual  we 
accept  the  claim  life  exacts  while  it  lasts. 
Here  is  this  Delamere  race — you  know  the 
stain  on  it;  I  told  you.  None  of  their  own 
making,  but  a  stain  I  can  reproduce  and 
brand  my  children  with  if  I  will.  Her  father 
is  the  only  one  of  five  brothers  that  was 
spared.  All  the  rest  were  unsound  in  some 
mental  way.  He  has  an  uncle  who's  living 
still,  an  idiot,  in  one  of  the  county  asylums. 
His  own  father  cut  his  throat,  off  in  Devon- 
shire, one  night,  after  fifty  delirious  fits  and 
a  kind  of  three  years'  raininess  that  made 


FABIAX    DIMITRY.  27 

people  think  lie  would'  draw  his  last  breath 
sane.  Yet  worse  than  this,  lier  three  broth- 
ers— and  one  but  a  mere  lad  of  twelve — all 
perished  in  tragic  manners  from  the  same 
hideous  ill  .  .  .  I'  ve  told  you  this  before — 
yes,  your  silence  seems  to  answer  me  that 
I've  told  it  before.  But"  (and  here  Fabian 
leaned  close  to  his  hearer,  with  a  hand  on 
the  back  of  his  chair)  ''you've  something 
now  in  your  silence  that  wasn't  there  then. 
I  can  read  it,  though  I  don't  understand  it. 
Ray,  my  friend,  you  can't  mean  that  you 
advise  me — you,  always  so  finely  furnished 
with  the  hate  of  weak  and  small  acts — not  to 
recoil  from  this  piece  of  terrible  egotism." 

Affection  and  reproach  were  blended  in 
Fabian's  voice.  As  Eninger  turned  and  met 
his  eyes,  the  result  was  an  electric  conscience- 
thrill. 

"You  say  that  I  hate  weak  and  small 
acts,"  he  said.  "But  I  can't  call  this  one 
of  either.  It's  only  human.  Good  God! 
we're  not  to  be  bred,  we  men  and  women 
with  minds  and  souls,  as  though  we  were 
race- horses!" 


28  FABIAN    DIM  ITHY. 

''But  we're  to  think  of  our  unborn  chil- 
dren, Ray!  I've  always  said  that  no  man 
had  the  right  to  marry  a  woman  with  the 
seeds  of  an  incurable  hereditary  malady  in 
her  blood.  We  call  murder  a  crime.  In 
begetting  the  heirs  of  murderous  ills  we  are 
ourselves  worse  than  assassins.  The  selfish- 
ness of  it  all  is  supreme;  we  may  be  laying 
desolate  a  score  of  lives  merely  to  please  our 
own.  The  bigot,  the  pietist,  the  shallow 
conservative  may  have  his  excuse  for  such  a 
coarse.  Men  like  you  and  me,  Ray — men 
who  have  stamped  all  superstition  underfoot 
and  accepted  science  as  the  one  help  and 
hope  of  humanity — we  have  none!" 

Eninger  got  up  from  his  chair  and  stood  with 
his  back  to  the  fire  and  with  hands  clasped  be- 
hind him.  His  purplish  silken  dressing- 
sacque  gave  to  him  a  new  air  of  patrician 
daintiness  and  nicety.  There  are  men  who 
can  not  draw  on  a  pair  of  gloves  without 
implying  some  peculiar  refinement  by  the 
process.  Eninger  was  one  of  these.  You  had 
but  to  watch  a  little  while  before  you  became 
a  ware  that  his  tastes  and  temperament  were 


FABIAX    DIMITRY.  29 

porcelain  beside  the  common  earthenware  of 
others.  Yet  although  he  clearly  bespoke 
the  clilettant,  he  never  deserved  the  name  of 
prig  or  poseur.  Certain  crudities  in  his  fel- 
low-men shocked  him  past  speech,  and  rather 
than  dwell  under  the  ban  of  particular  social 
conditions  he  would  have  courted  death. 
Shame  or  disgrace  of  any  sort  would  have 
been  like  barbed  and  poisoned  darts  to  him. 
His  standing  before  the  world,  the  point  of 
view  that  people  had  of  him,  the  whiteness 
and  brightness  with  which  his  good-name 
shone  before  their  eyes,  he  held  surpassingly 
dear.  As  dear,  too,  was  immunity  from  the 
prying  public  gaze.  He  had  talent  enough 
to  have  written  something  if  he  had  tried; 
but  the  idea  of  having  the  newspapers  direct 
upon  his  work-  their  calcium  glare  was 
fraught  for  him  with  an  especial  disrelish. 
Of  all  human  creatures  he  was  one  least 
fitted  for  what  we  call  the  battle  of  life.  It 
was  not  simply  that  the  hard  knocks  he 
must  get  there  would  give  him  pain,  but 
that  they  dealt  him  unhealing,  immedicable 
wounds.  And  vet  he  \vas  a  man  who  had 


30  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

delighted,  notwithstanding  all  this  over- 
refinement  and  sensitiveness,  in  confronting 
many  of  those  austere  nineteenth-century 
truths  which  have  sent  romance  whimpering 
and  shivering  from  her  ancient  coignes  and 
bournes. 

In  this  respect  he  was  mentally  akin  to  his 
friend,  Fabian  Dimitry,  as  we  have  but 
recently  heard  the  latter  say.  But  Fabian's 
organism  was  of  far  stouter  and  manfuller 
make.  On  leaving  college  he  had  found 
himself,  like  Eninger,  lifted  above  the  needs 
of  money-getting,  though  with  an  income 
which  extravagance  might  easily  have  melt- 
ed. The  idea  of  sending  some  new  red  blood 
into  the  shrivelled  veins  of  our  dramatic  lit- 
erature had  thralled  and  fascinated  .him. 
Going  abroad,  he  had  studied  the  stage  in 
several  great  European  cities,  and  at  last  had 
drifted  to  London  deep  in  the  spell  of  Miss 
Delamere's  attractions.  His  resolute  artistic 
purpose  had  remained  firm  enough  until  the 
dawn  of  a  most  bewildering  trouble.  But 
even  now  you  had  only  to  mark  the  clear, 
strong  lines  of  his  classic  face  to  see  that  he 


FABIAN    DIMITBY.  31 

was  one  whom  sorrow  might  martyrize  but 
never  unman.  There  was  no  daintiness  nor 
over-sensitiveness  here.  A  fine  serenity  of 
spirit  controlled  this  nature,  a  patient  dig- 
nity upbore  it,  and  a  lucid  liberalism  senti- 
nelled, so  to  speak,  its  approaches. 

"  You  speak  of  excuses,"  Eninger  slowly 
said.  ' '  To  my  thinking  there  could  be  only 
one  that  was  powerful  enough— Alicia  Dela- 
mere  herself." 

Fabian  gave  a  start,  and  then  his  lips  mel- 
lowed into  a  warm  smile  "  You  think  her 
so  lovely!"  he  exclaimed. 

Eninger  was  glancing  down  at  his  own  del- 
icate white  hands,  with  their  filbert  nails 
like  glossy  little  pink  shells  and  their  single 
ring,  an  almost  priceless  cameo  which  he 
had  picked  up  somewhere  in  Italy  as  a  really 
wondrous  trouvaille.  He  had  often  lightly 
said,  until  he  chanced  upon  this  gem,  that 
he  would  as  soon  wear  a  ring  through  his 
nose  as  one  upon  his  finger. 

"I  think  her  a  very  beautiful  creature," 
he  now  answered.  Then  he  looked  up  in  a 
keen,  alert  way  at  his  friend.  "  About  these 


32  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

stories  of  madness  being  so  rampant  in  the 
family  .  .  May  they  not  have  been  exag- 
gerated?" 

"No,"  said  Fabian,  with  a  sort  of  unwill- 
ing firmness.  "  I  have  made  quite  sure. 
The  complete  record  has  reached  me  through 
sources  there  was  no  distrusting.  Some 
other  time  I'll  tell  you  more.  There  are 
ghastly  details  about  those  dead  Delameres 
which  to-night,  Heaven  help  me,  I've  no 
stomach  for." 

"And  the  old  Colonel?"  asked  Eninger, 
in  an  absent,  brooding  voice.  ' '  Has  he 
volunteered  no  confidences?" 

"None.  Poor  old  fellow,  I  imagine  he 
thinks  Alicia  has  told  me  nothing.' ' 

"  Then  his  daughter  knows  and  is  willing 
to  talk  of  it  all?" 

"  She  knows,,  but  refers  to  it  only  with  the 
greatest  reluctance.  I  mean,"  added  Fabian, 
"  when  /bring  up  the  subject.  With  you — 
with  any  ordinary  acquaintance — she  would 
be  apt,  I  think,  to  decline  all  discussion  of  it. ' ' 

"Ah,"  said  Eninger  dryly,  perhaps  not 
knowing  that  he  spoke. 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  33 

Those  words  "ordinary  acquaintance" 
jarred  upon  him.  When  he  thought  of  the 
sudden  yet  novel  emotions  roused  in  him  by 
Alicia  it  seemed  as  if  his  acquaintance  with 
her  had  already  become  very  extraordinary 
indeed.  Fabian  now  went  on  to  say  that  he 
had  found  the  old  Colonel  rather  difficult  to 
get  along  with .  ' '  The  truth  is, ' '  he  declared, 
with  abrupt  frankness,  "I  pity  but  don't  at 
all  admire  him.  He's  not  worthy  to  be  the 
father  of  so  dear  a  girl.  His  poverty  stirs 
my  compassion,  but  his  lack  of  dignity 
wakes  my  disgust.  Perhaps  dignity's  too 
mild  a  word,  and  I  ought  to  call  it  conscience. 
The  old  sinner  borrows  of  every  man  who 
will  lend  him,  Ray,  and  with  no  more  idea 
of  returning  the  money  than  if  it  had  been 
left  him  as  a  legacy.  He's  the  horror  of  his 
club  and  the  despair  of  his  poor  child. 
Your  turn  will  come  soon,  if  you  make  many 
more  visits  to  Lincoln's  Inn  Square.  Still, 
for  all  I  know,  it  may  have  come  already?" 

"It  hasn't,"  said  Eninger.  He  afterward 
thought,  with  an  inward  shudder,  of  Alicia's 
position.  A  father  like  that,  besides  an 


34  FABIAN   DIMITRY. 

ancestry  so  forlornly  besmirched!  How 
tyrannous  were  the  whims  and  freaks  of 
destiny!  What  a  mercy  if  some  man  were 
to  fling  her  a  stont  little  plank  of  matrimony 
amid  these  tossing  waters  of  dismay  and 
threat! 

After  what  Fabian  had  told  him  about  the 
Colonel,  he  was  prepared  to  be  asked  for  at 
least  five  pounds  the  next  time  he  and  Alicia's 
father  were  alone  together.  But  on  this 
occasion  (one  which  arrived  much  sooner 
than  he  had  expected)  no  such  request  left 
the  grim  old  soldier's  lips.  On  the  contrary 
a  good  many  rather  grumbling  remarks  left 
them  with  respect  to  the  absent  Fabian. 

"  Between  ourselves,  now,  my  dear  Mr. 
Eninger,"  said  the  Colonel,  in  his  stiff,  grace- 
less way,  "it  strikes  me  that  Dimitry  is  a 
devil  of  a  self-assuming  person.  By  Jove, 
he  talks  of  the  drama  of  this  country  as 
though  it  were  all  worthless  rubbish,  right 
from  Shakespeare  down." 

"  Oh,  I  think  he  draws  the  line  at  Shakes- 
peare," smiled  Eninger,  who  loathed  most 
of  the  current  English  play- writing  as  cor- 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  35 

dially  as  his  friend  did,  and  knew  well  how 
Fabian  loved  the  divine  William. 

"No,"  maintained  the  Colonel,  crossing 
his  thin  legs  obstinately,  "I'm  deuced  if  he 
draws  the  line  anywhere.  And  what  has  he 
himself  done,  I'd  like  to  know,  in  the  dra- 
matic line?  Plays  in  manuscript  mean  noth- 
ing till  they'  re  produced.  You'  11  grant  that!" 
continued  the  Colonel,  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
turned  up  some  shining  jewel  of  wisdom 
with  the  plowshare  of  everyday  discourse. 

But  he  had  several  more  ill-natured  things 
to  say  of  Fabian,  as  Eninger  soon  discovered. 
None  of  his  back-biting  was  more  serious 
than  that  of  a  spleenful  old  man  who  fumes 
with  a  grudge.  When  he  began  to  draw 
between  Eninger  and  his  friend,  however,  a 
comparison  highly  nattering  to  the  former, 
then  light  broke  upon  the  Colonel' s  listener. 
' '  He' s  ambling  gently  toward  a  requested  loan 
of  five  pounds,"  thought  Eninger,  and  he 
thought  also  of  Alicia  who  was  oil  on  some 
shopping  expedition  (Heaven  only  knew  if  it 
were  not  to  haggle  with  some  cheap  butcher 
about  the  cutlet's  for  that  evening's  dinner, 


36  FABIAN    DIMITKY. 

poor  girl!)  and  told  himself  that  just  another 
sight  of  those  morning-colored  eyes  and  that 
field-daisy  sort  of  face  would  be  worth  twice, 
even  thrice,  the  sum. 

But  he  had  entirely  misinterpreted  the 
sly  old  Colonel.  No  attempt  was  made  to 
borrow  a  farthing.  In  awkward,  infelici- 
tous fashion  he  was  told  that  he  possessed 
points  of  marked  superiority  over  Fabian 
and  that  this  opinion  was  one  which  Alicia 
also  held.  Eninger  felt  his  heart  throb 
as  he  heard  those  tidings.  It  never  occur- 
red to  him  that  he  was  perchance  a  matri- 
monial bait  at  which  were  now  being  given 
two  or  three  discreet  preliminary  nibbles. 
Alicia  soon  appeared,  and  the  Colonel  won 
his  gratitude  by  rather  promptly  leaving. 
How  her  eyes  lit  the  room!  How  her  rest- 
ive, nervous  manner  made  one  long  to  lull 
and  pacify  her  as  one  might  stroke  the 
fur  of  a  kitten!  It  must  be  that  she  was 
forever  worrying  about  their  household 
debts  and  her  father's  reckless  borrowings 
and  the  horrid  no-thoroughfare  prospect  of 
their  future. 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  37 

As  they  now  sat  together  near  a  window 
that  gave  upon  the  square  and  watched  the 
dismantled  trees  quiver  in  a  rainy  wind 
beneath  low-stooping  leaden  skies,  Eninger 
had  a  sense  of  quiet  delight  he  had  never 
known  before.  Presently  the  rain  ceased 
and  the  sun  tried  to  struggle  out  from  the 
monstrous  masses  of  rolling  vapor  that 
whitened  and  glistened  with  his  fitful  rays. 
If  nowhere  in  the  world  there  are  gloomier 
heavens  than  over  London,  nowhere,  too,  are 
there  more  gloriously  mutable  and  poetic 
ones,  and  never  an  autumn  passes  but  the 
miraculous  canvases  of  Turner  are  hundreds 
of  times  reduplicated  in  those  azure  fields 
whence  he  first  drew  their  splendors. 

Eninger  scarcely  knew  what  he  and  Alicia 
talked  about  that  afternoon.  The  most 
trifling  matters,  no  doubt,  and  yet  every 
fresh  word  seemed  to  make  him  feel  more 
intimately  at  home  in  her  presence.  She 
was  so  much  easier  to  talk  with  than  most 
of  the  English  girls  whom  he  had  met. 
They  would  sit  sedately  with  hands  crossed 
in  their  laps  and  expect  not  to  amuse  but 


38  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

to  be  amused.  With  Alicia  it  was  not  thus; 
she  thought  of  pretty,  diverting  little  things 
to  say;  she  was  cleverer,  more  buoyant,  less 
restrained  and  self-effaced  than  multitudes 
of  her  English  sisters.  Eninger  at  length 
tried  to  learn  something  of  her  real  feelings 
toward  Fabian. 

"You've  known  him  a  good  while  now, 
have  you  not?"  he  said. 

"Yes;  rather."  She  drooped  her  eyes. 
"But  he  doesn't  come  to  us  as  often  as  he 
once  did.  I  can't  think  why."  Here  she 
raised  her  eyes  again.  "  Can  you?" 

"  No;  unless  it's  because  he  is  busy  think- 
ing out  his  dramas." 

She  clasped  her  hands  together  and  leaned 
eagerly  forward,  while  he  saw  a  keener  pink 
float  up  into  her  cheek.  "Oh,  are  they 
not  strong  and  fine,  those  dramas!"  she 
exclaimed.  "  He  has  read  me  two,  '  Rosa- 
mond' and  'Married  Women.'  How  dif- 
ferent they  are  from  the  trash  one  sees  when 
one  goes  to  the  play  here  in  London.  What 
warm  humanity  is  in  them,  yet  what  sting- 
ing satire.  And  how  they  take  hold  of 


FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

the  mind  and  set  you  thinking.  He  will  be 
very  great,  some  day;  don't  you  think  he 
will?" 

"I  think  he  ought  to  be,"  answered 
Eninger,  not  knowing  that  the  reply  came 
in  a  changed  and  almost  husky  voice.  For 
that  afternoon  at  least,  the  pleasure  of  his 
tete-a-tete  had  been  spoiled. 


40  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 


III. 

Another  fortnight  passed,  and  London  was 
nearly  always  wrapped  in  funereal  hazes, 
But  sometimes,  when  the  fog  was  at  its 
densest,  wild  yellow  light  would  tinge  it 
until  all  the  air  looked  so  elfin  you  might 
have  said  the  end  of  the  world  was  immi- 
nent. It  had  now  become  plain  to  Eninger 
that  he  would  not  sail  for  America  that  year. 
He  might  go  to  Paris  or  even  further,  but  lie 
would  never  put  the  sea  between  Alicia 
Delamere  and  himself  until  certain  that 
Fabian's  resolve  not  to  marry  her  was  irre- 
vocably clinched. 

She  loved  Fabian.  He  had  made  himself 
sure  of  that,  and  had  suffered  pangs  in  fully 
;i wakening  from  the  effects  of  the  Colonel's 
welcome  falsehood.  He  had  recognized  the 
iv;il  -i  mult  >ur  of  his  friend's  intended  sacrifice. 
But  perhaps  because  his  entire  nature  was 
built  on  pediments  feebler  than  Fabian's  he 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  41 

had  doubted  if  that  sacrifice  would  ever  be 
made. 

One  evening  changed  all  this.  Fabian  en- 
tered his  rooms,  paler  than  usual  and  clearly 
agitated.  He  gave  Eninger  no  greeting,  but 
planted  himself  not  far  from  the  door  which 
he  had  just  closed,  while  he  curtly  said : 

"I  have  lately  been  treated  almost  with 
open  insult  by  Colonel  Delamere." 

Eninger,  who  was  in  full  evening  dress,  and 
had  been  about  to  start  in  a  cab  for  the  com- 
fortable little  club,  not  far  from  Piccadilly 
where  he  often  dined,  looked  placid  and  polite 
defiance  as  he  answered  : 

"Really,  one  would  suppose  from  your 
manner,  that  you  had  been  treated  with  open 
insult  by  me." 

Fabian  tossed  his  head  and  smiled  bitterly. 

"If  you  call  treachery  insult,  yes,"  he 
responded. 

"Treachery?"  repeated  Eninger,  squaring 
himself.  "Come,  now." 

"The  Colonel  isn't  always  a  trustworthy 
man,"  were  Fabian's  next  words,  "but  in 
this  case  I  think  he  has  proved  himself  one." 


42  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

' '  This  case?    W hat  case?' ' 

"You've  made  it  plain  to  him  that  you 
wish  to  marry  liis  daughter." 

Eninger  turned  rather  pale,  and  locked  his 
hands  behind  him. 

"Did  the  Colonel  say  that  to  you?"  he 
asked. 

"  Yes.  Do  you  deny  that  he  told  the  truth?" 

Fabian  stood  before  his  friend,  inexorable' 
as  an  accusing  judge.  Eninger  scanned  his 
tranquil  face  for  an  instant  and  then  threw 
up  both  hands,  half  turning  away. 

"Good  God,  man,"  he  muttered,  "haven't 
you  seen  that  I  care  for  the  girl?  Because 
you  reject  her  yourself  must  you  keep 
everybody  else  from  trying  to  get  her?' ' 

After  so  speaking,  Eninger  held  his  counte- 
nance averted.  It  seemed  to  him  that  an 
immensely  long  period  elapsed  before  Fabian 
again  spoke. 

"I  think  only  this,"  at  length  came  the 
words  he  waited  for.  "  If  you  did  not  seethe 
crime  of  such  a  marriage  as  I  saw  it,  you 
might  have  used  decent  candor  in  telling 
me  so." 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  43 

Eninger  clinched  his  hands  and  replied, 
with  quivering  lips. 

"Fabian,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  accepted 
your  prior  claim.  You  renounced  that  claim 
— you  told  me  so.  But  if  this  be  not  true, 
I  retire  again  in  your  favor  .  .  .  Stop! 
you're  about  to  question  my  moral  sense  in 
wishing  to  marry  Alicia.  That  you  have  no 
right  to  do.  If  you  will  say  to  me  now,  at 
this  moment,  that  you  will  take  the  girl,  I 
promise  you  I'll  withdraw  from  ever  trying 
to  become  her  husband.  If  you  refuse  to 
adopt  that  course,  I  shall  hold  free  the  field 
of  my  own  endeavor.  Can  you,  honestly, 
call  this  treachery?  Before  you  accuse  me 
again,  weigh  well  your  words.  You've 
always  prided  yourself  on  justice.  Prove 
now  that  you've  not  dealt  in  mere  vaunts." 

Fabian' s  brow  was  a  cloud  of  storm  as  he 
stepped  a  little  nearer  to  the  speaker. 

"Justice!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  passion- 
ate sorrow  in  his  tones.  "Can you  dare  to 
use  the  word?  I've  told  you  everything. 
You  know  what  such  a  marriage  may 
mean!" 


44  FABIAN    DTMITRY. 

Eninger  slowly  inclined  his  head. 

"There  are  such  things  as  childless  mar- 
riages," he  answered  coldly. 

Fabian  stared  at  him  in  silence.  If  his 
look  had  been  purely  one  of  scorn,  its  object 
might  have  flung  back  hot  resentment.  But 
it  was  both  more  and  less  than  this.  It 
brimmed  with  an  arraignment  that  seemed 
to  search  and  scorch  the  inmost  soul  of  the 
man  who  guiltily  met  it. 

4 'As  you  will,  Ray  Eninger,"  he  at  last 
said.  "We  will  speak  no  more  of  either 
treachery  or  justice.  I  shall  leave  England 
in  two  days'  time;  that  I  promise  you.  The 
field  of  endeavor,  as  you've  termed  it,  is 
quite  clear.  There  is  my  answer.  What 
your  own  conscience  and  honor  may  say  to 
you  in  the  coming  years  I  shall  not  presume 
to  question." 

He  turned,  after  thus  speaking,  and  opened 
the  door  near  which  he  stood.  As  he  passed 
from  the  room,  Eninger  was  on  the  point  of 
uttering  some  angry  retort;  but  swiftly  a 
great  exultation  replaced  his  ireful  impulse. 
He  sank  into  a  chair,  covering  his  face.  The 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  45 

thought  of  what  might  now  occur,  dizzied 
him  and  made  his  blood  bound. 

Calmer  moments  brought  him  suffering. 
He  perceived  how  he  must  have  soiled  him- 
self in  the  sight  of  the  friend  whose  respect 
he  had  treasured;  for  after  all  he  was  of  too 
high-strung  and  delicate  a  fibre  not  to  feel 
in  full  degree  the  shame  of  his  own  disloy- 
alty. But  a  certain  reparation  might  be 
made  in  the  future.  He  began  to  build  hopes 
on  such  a  contingency,  and  to  picture  Fa- 
bian as  a  guest  in  his  New  York  home. 
Why  should  this,  not  sooner  or  later  come 
about?  Far  stranger  things  had  happened, 
and  there  were  elements,  qualities  in  Fa- 
bian which  seemed  all  the  more  stimulant  and 
tonic  to  him  now  that  months  of  separa- 
tion had  again  given  place  to  companionship. 
As  for  Alicia's  love,  why  should  it  not 
change  its  current,  so  that  when  she  once 
more  met  the  man  who  had  set  throbbing 
her  maiden  pulses  he  would  seem  to  her  only 
a  vague  image  beside  the  dominant  one  of 
him  whose  name  she  now  bore?  And  as  for 
Alicia  herself,  surely  to  become  his  wife 


46  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

must  prove,  should  she  ever  accept  such  a 
fate,  more  of  blessing  than  curse.  He  would 
guard  her  as  the  lid  guards  its  eye.  If  insan- 
ity lurked  like  an  ambushed  bravo  in  her 
brain*  he  would  keep  the  foe  at  bay  with  all 
the  spells  his  medical  craft  could  conjure. 
His  vigilance  should  be  sleepless  and  his 
most  potent  spur  toward  the  deepening  and 
broadening  of  scientific  research  should 
spring  from  eager  interest  in  herself.  If  the 
world  ever  knew  him  for  a  famous  physician 
it  would  be  chiefly  through  her  precious 
though  unconscious  aid. 

He  trembled,  all  this  while,  with  dread  of 
Alicia's  discountenance.  That  he  should  win 
her,  too,  merely  as  the  'suitor  with  the  well- 
lined  purse,  was  wholly  repellent.  She  had 
known  Fabian  first,  and  even  his  desertion 
could  not  be  expected  instantly  to  turn 
the  tide  of  her  sentiment.  Eninger  was 
.•ihvady  schooling  himself  not  to  care  very 
much  if  the  girl  should  become  his  with  a 
pronounced  preference  for  Fabian;  but  he 
lint.-d  to  think  that  she  might  perhaps  marry 
him  with  no  more  human  motive  than  one 


FABIAN    DIMITKY.  47 

of  cold-blooded  expediency.  The  old  Col- 
onel was  of  course  his  ally,  and  yet  he  feared 
lest  Alicia's  father  might  either  ruin  the 
cause  by  bungling,  or  else  goad  his  child  into 
a  role  of  self-immolating  hypocrisy.  After 
some  reflection  Eninger  concluded  that  there 
was  only  one  course  to  take — he  would  avoid 
the  Colonel  altogether,  and  go  straight  to 
Alicia  with  his  passion  and  his  promises. 

He  did  so,  a  few  days  later,  and  the  expe- 
rience bred  for  him  nothing  but  anguish. 
Alicia  answered  him  with  tone  and  mien  that 
there  could  be  no  mistaking. 

"  I'm  grateful  to  you,"  she  said,  in  her  flut- 
tered and  breaking  voice.  "I — I  did  not 
think  you  believed —  Well,  no  matter, 
though,  Mr.  Eninger.  The — the  fault  may 
have  been  altogether  mine." 

"  The  fault?"  he  queried. 

"I  mean  that  perhaps  I — I  led  you  to 
think  I  cared  for  you  in  that  way.  And 
if  I  did,  it  was  very  blamable  in  me — 
very!" 

"No,"  he  returned;  "I  don't  accuse  you 
of  any  coquetry;  and  the  blame  is  all  on  my 


48  FABIAN    DIMITRY.       . 

side.  I  should  have  remembered  that  Dimi- 
try " 

"Ah,  don't  mention  his  name!' '  she  cried, 
bursting  into  tears. 

"You  loved  him,  then?  You  mean  that  I 
could  not  replace  him  in  your  heart?" 

"My  heart!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  sud- 
den plaintiveness  that  touched  him  past 
words.  "My  heart  is  broken!"  And  so 
speaking  she  slipped  from  the  room  in  a 
tumult  of  tears. 

Eninger  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in  dull 
despair.  But  that  evening,  just  after  he  had 
returned  home  from  a  dinner  of  which  it 
seemed  mockery  for  him  even  to  pretend  to 
partake,  he  was  surprised  by  the  appear- 
ance of  Colonel  Delamere. 

The  Colonel,  with  his  gauntness,  and  his 
supercilious  carnage  of  the  head,  and  his 
buckram  demeanor,  was  at  no  time  a  pleas- 
ant vision;  and  yet  a  delicious  little  shaft  of 
encouragement  seemed  to  pierce  Eninger  on 
now  beholding  him.  Was  it  not  possible 
that  the  wine  of  hope  might  be  borne  him 
«-v.  11  by  so  graceless  a  cup-bearer? 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  49 

Hope  the  Colonel  did  bring,  but  not  of  a 
sort  which  his  host  greatly  relished.  "My 
good  Eninger, ' '  the  father  of  Alicia  was  soon 
saying,  in  his  thin,  chill  voice,  and  with 
one  bloodless  hand  stroking  a  spectral 
wisp  of  white  whisker,  "you  have  quite 
misunderstood  my  poor,  dear  girl,  I  assure 
you." 

"You're  mistaken,  I  think,  Colonel.  By 
the  way,  let  me  offer  you  a  cigar." 

"Thanks,  thanks,  very  much,"  replied 
the  Colonel,  who  doubtless  had  every  desire 
to  be  gracious,  though  his  nose  continued 
in  the  air  and  his  lips  retained  their  pursed, 
imperious  look.  "  Really,  you  Americans 
do  manage  to  procure  such  superb  brands. 
Now,  my  dear  Eninger,  I  must  maintain 
that  you've  read  Alicia  wrong — wholly 
wrong." 

"You  have  been  talking  with  her,  I  sup- 
pose, Colonel?" 

"Yes;  but  not  persuasively,  not — a — 
coercingly;  pray  don't  imagine  it.  She's 
irritated,  stung,  at  the  way  in  which  Dim- 
itry  darted  across  the  ocean.  But,  compared 


60  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

to  yourself,  my  dear  man,  she  holds  him  as 
a  fellow  of  very  trifling  note." 

"Then  she's  wrong,"  muttered  Eninger, 
and  he  meant  the  words  from  his  inmost  soul. 

"Ah,  don't  run  yourself  down,"  admon- 
ished the  Colonel.  "It's  such  a  vile  world, 
my  boy,  that  even  so  thoroughly  good  a 
chap  as  yourself  will  have  plenty  of  hard 
things  said  of  him  by  other  lips  than  his 
own!  .  .  .  But  bless  me,  you've  thrice 
Dimitry's  force  and  distinction.  Depend 
upon  it,  Alicia  will  confess  as  much  to  you, 
also,  if  you'll  only  be  patient  and  make 
allowances  for  a  girl's  whims  and  freaks." 

"  I'd  be  patient  enough,  sir,"  said  Eninger, 
with  sad  austerity,  "if  I  thought  she  would 
tell  me  in  the  end  that  she  felt  a  little  genu- 
ine love  for  me." 

"  A  little?"  echoed  the  Colonel,  with  hilar- 
ity about  as  successful  as  though  it  had 
been  attempted  by  a  skull;  "  why,  bless  me, 
Eninger,  she's  got  a  tremendous  amount, 
though  it  happens  to  be  stored  away  some- 
where behind  her  nonsensical  shyness.  Trust 
me.  now;  I'm  telling  you  plain  truth." 


FABIAX    DIMITRY.  51 

But  Eninger  did  not  at  all  trust  the  Col- 
onel. He  had  begun  clearly  to  see  of  what 
foxiness  this  broken-down  old  idler  had 
made  him  the  object.  The  Colonel  had  lately 
met  at  his  club  a  certain  New  York  man  who 
had  known  the  Eningers,  root  and  branch, 
for  forty  years,  and  could  have  told  Ray's 
income  to  within  a  dime.  Doubtless  he 
had  told  it,  and  these  recent  profuse  civil- 
ities were  the  result.  The  young  physician 
squarely  faced  what  he  was  convinced  to  be 
the  truth.  It  was  horrible  to  think  of  Alicia 
having  steeled  herself  into  an  acceptance  of 
his  suit.  It  was  almost  as  horrible  as  to 
lose  her  outright. 

And  yet  had  she  not  told  him  that  her  heart 
was  broken?  .  .  .  He  lay  awake  half  that 
night,  wondering  what  he  should  say  to  her 
if  his  feet  strayed  into  Lincoln's  Inn  Square 
the  next  morning.  Till  ten  minutes  after 
breakfast-time  he  kept  telling  himself  it  was 
best  not  to  go  at  all,  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
later  he  was  quitting  Bond  Street  for  Oxford 
Street,  and  moving  thence  in  an  easterly 
course  through  the  weirdest  of  amber  fogs 


52  .        FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

The  old  square  looked,  as  he  reached  it, 
like  some  misty  and  somnolent  borderland 
between  dream  and  reality.  But  when  he 
had  got  inside  the  little  Delamere  house,  and 
had  found  Alicia  beside  a  fire  in  the  small 
sitting-room  and  somehow  appearing  almost 
as  if  she  had  been  expecting  him,  then  every 
hint  of  illusion  thoroughly  vanished. 

"I've  come,"  he  said,  as  he  took  her  cold 
hand  in  his,  "to  ask  after  that  broken 
heart."  -He  smiled,  though  very  sympathet- 
ically, as  she  withdrew  her  hand.  "Do  you 
know,"  he  softly  went  on,  "that  I've  been 
wondering  whether  I  could  not,  if  you  gave 
it  me,  somehow  find  a  way  of  joining  the 
pieces  together  and  making  them  look  as 
though  they  had  never  been  separated — never 
in  the  world?" 

He  did  not  mean  a  word  that  he  said,  and 
the  spirit  within  him  was  very  heavy  as  he 
thus  spoke.  He  had  indeed  come  to  her 
hiiting  his  own  weakness  for  having  come  at 
all.  He  expected  soon  to  go  away,  and  to 
go  with  an  inward  curse  at  his  stupidity,  to 
1:0  with  a  vow  that  he  would  take  the 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  53 

cast-off  leavings  of  no  man  on  earth. 
But  Alicia  smiled  sweetly  although  sadly, 
and  he  saw  some  kind  of  gleam  in  the  smile 
that  made  him  drop  into  a  chair  at  her  side. 
And  then  she  told  him,  with  a  voice  trem- 
bling less  and  less  till  at  last  it  grew  quite 
firm,  that  perhaps  she  had  been  foolish  and 
willful  yesterday,  and  that  if  he  forgave  her 
it  would  put  his  generosity  to  test.  He  took 
her  hand,  at  this,  and  she  let  him  keep  it. 
"Do  you  mean,"  he"  asked,  off  his  guard  and 
covertly  thrilling,  "that  you  really  can  care 
for  me  as — as  I  want  you  to  care?" 

Of  course  this  was  imbecility,  but  he  did 
not  feel  it  then;  and  before  any  reaction  had 
had  time  to  set  in  with  him  self-mockingly, 
she  had  told  him  that  she  cared  for  him  a  great 
deal,  though  doubtless  not  half  so  well -as 
he  deserved.  She  made  her  confession  with 
an  arch  loveliness  that  blinded  him  to  its 
probable  falsity.  What  could  he  do?  He 
adored  her,  and  it  was  so  easy  to  take  her 
in  his  arms  and  swear  that  she  should  never 
know  an  unhappy  moment  as  his  wife,  if 
devotion  could  save  her  from  one.  After 


f>4  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

that  hour  a  seed  of  confidence  was  sown 
within  Eninger,  quick  to  burst  and  grow.  He 
forgot  to  repine  at  the  prepossession  wrought 
in  his  sweetheart  by  Dimitry;  he  remembered 
only  that  there  was  a  force  of  usurpature 
in  his  own  passion  which  sooner  or  later 
would  rule  unchecked. 

It  is  but  fair  to  record  at  once  that  he  did 
not  miscalculate.  In  a  few  weeks  Alicia  and 
he  were  quietly  married.  They  soon  after- 
ward sailed  for  New  York,  and  the  Colonel 
accompanied  them.  Not  that  Eninger  by 
any  means  preferred  this  arrangement.  The 
Colonel  appeared  strongly  to  do  so,  however, 
and  declared  that  life  without  his  dear  child 
would  be  desolation.  This  struck  Alicia's 
husband  as  probably  most  true,  since  the 
poor  girl  had  for  six  or  seven  years  past 
borne  the  worst  brunt  of  their  poverty,  and 
without  her  tact,  thrift  and  pluck  it  might 
have  been  a  case  of  sink,  not  swim.  The 
Colonel  gave  no  signs  of  grief  at  parting 
from  his  native  land,  and  after  he  had  reach- 
ed New  York  was  housed  much  more  com- 
fortably in  the  pretty  Forty-Second  Street 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  55 

dwelling  rented  by  Eninger  than  he  had 
ever  dreamed  of  being  in  the  draughty  old 
tenement  on  Lincoln's  Inn  Square.  But 
forthwith  he  broke  into  cynicisms  and  in- 
vectives that  had  America  for  their  one 
pitiless  object.  He  seemed  to  see  as  wide  a 
difference  between  the  customs  of  London 
and  New  York  as  if  he  had  been  trans- 
planted from  the  river  Thames  to  the  Yang- 
tse-kiang.  Everything  here  was  vulgar, 
crude,  odious.  Even  the  incessant  glare  of 
sunlight  hurt  his  eyes.  He  declared  the 
icing  of  sherry  barbarism  and  the  wearing 
of  overshoes  idiocy.  He  said  that  it  gave 
him  neuralgia  to  sit  in  one  of  our  "tram- 
cars,"  the  people  about  him  spoke  through 
their  noses  so  aggravatingly.  He  affirmed 
that  our  newspapers  nauseated  him,  and  the 
filth  of  our  streets  likewise.  He  spoke  of 
"dear  old  England"  and  "this  infernal 
country  "  with  a  lack  of  restraint  that  made 
Eninger  recall  how  many  of  his  kindred 
had  lost  mental  balance,  and  wonder  if  a 
loose  brain-screw  might  not  account  for  his 
sudden  fanatical  bias. 


56  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"You're  so  patient  with  father,"  said 
Alicia  to  him  one  day.  "  I  thank  you  for  it 
with  all  my  heart!" 

"  Oh,  I'm  in  hopes  his  nonsense  will  wear 
off, ' '  answered  Eninger.  ' '  Besides,  it' s  easy 
enough  to  bear  almost  anything  from  your 
father!" 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  on  the  throat, 
and  saw  her  blue  eyes  moisten  as  he  did  so. 
"Ah,  Ray,  you're  too  good  to  me!"  she 
broke  forth. 

He  took  both  her  hands,  holding  them 
and  staring  down  at  her  with  a  subtle 
hunger  in  his  eyes.  "No  one  could  be 
that,  darling.  You  deserve  all  that  human 
kindness  could  devise  for  you.  Unfortu- 
nately, in  my  case,  that  isn't  much.  But  if 
the  little  I  can  do  is  only  a  help  toward  your 
happiness,  I  shall  feel  vastly  encouraged." 

"  A  help  toward  my  happiness!"  came  her 
little  flute-like  cry.  "Oh,  Ray,  what  are 
you  saying?  Don't  you  know  that  I'm 
happy  already?" 

"Perfectly?"  he  asked,  with  his  eyes  still 
fixed  on  her  face.  He  turned  a  little  paler 


FABIA1ST    DIMITRY.  57 

as  lie  put  this  question  to  her,  though  it  is 
doubtful  if  she  saw  him  do  so. 

"Perfectly!"  she  answered,  while  a  sort 
of  confessional  flash  leapt  from  her  eyes,  and 
her  lips  remained  parted  as  though  she 
were  on  the  verge  of  saying  more. 

He  drew  back  from  her  a  little,  still  clasp- 
ing both  her  hands.  "  Do  women  forget  so 
soon?"  he  said.  "Do  broken  hearts  mend 
so  quickly?" 

She  reddened,  and  her  eyelids  drooped.  ' '  It 
isn't  every  woman  who  finds  a  consoler  like 
you!''  she  answered. 

"And  I  Jiave  consoled  you?  Absolutely?" 

"Absolutely!"  she  replied,  and  once  more 
her  gaze  met  his.  He  knew  then  that  she 
had  ceased  to  feel  a  shadow  of  regard  for 
Fabian  Dimitry,  even  though  he  had  not 
been  wholly  certain  of  this  until  now.  They 
were  alone  together,  and  he  caught  her  to 
his  breast  with  a  stifled  sob  of  joy. 

"What  a  victory  I  have  won,"  he  said,  as 
he  looked  down  into  her  smiling  and  blush- 
ing face. 

"You  deserved  it,"  she  said. 


58  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

The  words  went  through  him  like  a  knife. 
He  thought  of  Fabian  Dimitry,  who  had 
loved  this  woman  devoutly  as  himself,  and 
yet  had  gone  away  from  her  with  that  calm 
sublimity  of  self-renunciation  which  braves 
being  misunderstood,  unjustly  scorned. 

"No,"  he  said,  in  a  slow  and  changed 
voice,  while  he  took  his  arms  from  about 
Alicia' s  neck ;  "  I  did  not  deserve  my  victory. ' ' 


FABIAN    DIMITKY. 


IV. 


He  watched  her  health  from  week  to  week 
— almost  from  day  to  day — with  f urtive  but 
eager  interest.  There  were  times  when  it 
seemed  to  him  that  she  had  all  the  hardihood 
of  some  strong  rose-tree  which  may  put 
forth,  if  you  please,  faint-tinted  blooms  yet 
rears  them  on  sturdy  stems.  Again  he  would 
be  troubled  by  what  struck  him  as  an  accent- 
uation of  her  old  restless  manner.  She 
would  sometimes  vaguely  assert  of  the 
atmosphere  on  our  side  of  the  ocean  that  "it 
made  her  feel  so  different,"  and  once,  after  a 
statement  of  this  kind,  Eninger  said  to  her, 
in  a  voice  that  quite  hid  solicitude: 

' '  You  think  the  air  here  doesn't  agree  with 
you,  Alicia.  Come,  now,  confess." 

He  went  to  the  arm-chair  into  which  she 
had  thrown  herself,  and  sat  down,  bendingly, 
caressingly,  at  her  elbow.  It  was  dusk,  and 
they  were  waiting  dinner  for  the  Colonel, 


60  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

who  had  condescended  to  walk  out  that  after- 
noon in  the  detested  New  York  thoroughfares, 
and  who  had  not  yet  chosen  to  return. 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  say  thatf"  answered  the 
young  wife,  shaking  her  head  with  some 
negative  vehemence,  "  I've  no  doubt  it  agrees 
with  me  capitally.  Only,  it — well,  it  makes 
me  feel  so — so  different." 

"  That  is  what  you  always  end  by  saying." 
He  took  one  of  her  hands  in  both  his  own, 
and  then  let  one  of  his  middle  lingers  glide 
along  the  artery  at  her  wrist  till  it  rested  on 
a  certain  spot  there.  "  How  '  different '  does 
it  make  you  feel?  Try  and  explain  to  me." 

She  gave  a  slight  laugh.  '  "  I  don't  know 
that  I  can,  Ray,  really!  Well,  I  seem  some- 
how to  be  living  faster  than  I  did  in  Eng- 
land. I  don't  take  the  same  pleasure  in  rest; 
I  rarely  want  it;  and  yet  I'm  sometimes 
rather  tired,  too — more  tired,  I  think,  than  I 
used  to  be  there." 

' '  You'  re  nervous, ' '  Eninger  said.  ' '  This 
is  a  nervous  climate,"  he  added;  "notori- 
ously so." 

"  But  I'm  not  ill,"  protested  Alicia.  "I'm 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  61 

the  exact  reverse — except  for  that  occasional 
tired  feeling.  Often  I've  the  sensation  of 
being  too  healthful!" 

"Yes,  I  know,''  said  Eninger,  with  his 
face  graver,  perhaps,  than  he  was  aware  of. 

"Stop  feeling  my  pulse  as  if  I  were  an 
invalid!"  she  cried,  with  a  pretty  mock- 
petulance.  She  snatched  her  hand  away 
from  his  hold  and  threw  it  round  his  neck, 
kissing  him  with  tender  abandonment.  "I'm 
so  far  from  being  an  invalid,  Ray!  My  new 
life  here  has  refreshed  and  fortified  me  so! 

Only ' '  And  she  broke  off,  with  another 

laugh,  clinging  to  him  and  peering  into 
his  eyes,  her  blond  brows  embarrassedly 
clouded. 

"Only  what?"  he  asked,  mystified  not  a 
little. 

"  You'll  think  it  so  absurd." 

"Never  mind  if  I  do.  I've  thought  you 
absurd  before.  All  women  are,  now  and 
then.  Tell  me." 

"Do  you  know,"  she  hesitatingly  began, 
"I— I  have  such  a  sense,  at  times,  of  ex- 
travagance. " 


02  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"  Extravagance!" 

"  Great!  Of  course  you  recollect  how  much 
cheaper  nearly  everything  is  in  London  than 
it  is  here." 

"Oh,  yes." 

".Well,  I  suppose  it's  the  change— the 
freedom  from  that  iron  necessity  of  being 
compelled  to  keep  watch  on  every  penny, 
mixed  with  a  sort  of  unconquerable  surprise 
at  the  higher  prices  on  all  sides  of  me." 

"And  this  gives  you  the  idea  that  you're 
extravagant,  Alicia?" 

"Yes  .  .  Oh,  the  feeling  is  so  hard  to 
describe!"  She  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment, 
and  pantomimically  waved  both  hands  before 
her  face.  "  It's  as  though  I  must  be  wrong 
—as  though  I  couldn't  be  so  well  off  in  the 
world  as  you've  made  me!  You  know  what 
a  struggle  those  last  three  years  in  London 
were,  Ray!  They  begot  in  me  the  instinct  of 
saving  all  I  could,  and  of  longing  to  get 
more — more!  And  now  that  I've  all  I  want,  the 
old  self-preservative  impulse  of  the  genteel 
pauper  still  remains."  Her  face  was  lit  with 
smiles  as  she  ended,  but  somehow  a  shadow 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  63 

of  apprehension  crossed  the  mind  of  her 
hearer. 

"I  love  her  so  dearly,"  he  thought,  "that 
I  am  not  capable  of  being  her  physician.  If 
she  is  ever  ill — positively  ill — I  should  dis- 
trust every  drug  that  I  prescribed  for 
her." 

But  aloud  he  said:  "My  dear  wife,  your 
odd  fancies  do  not  surprise  me.  I  might 
talk  gravely  about  them  and  say  that  certain 
mental  functions  had  been  disturbed  by  those 
horrid  latter  years  of  your  London  life.  But 
I  won't,  for — 

She  lightly  interrupted  him,  just  then. 
"  Don't!"  she  exclaimed,  in  her  soft  English 
voice  that  had  such  inalienable  charm  for 
him.  She  was  facing  the  open  doorway  and 
his  back  was  turned  toward  it.  "Here  is 
father,"  she  went  swiftly  on,  "  and  while  lie 
is  near — Well,  Ray,  you  understand." 

Ray  indeed  understood  that  any  incau- 
tious word  against  London  life,  whatever 
its  form  of  depreciation  or  innuendo,  would 
have  taxed  in  drastic  way  the  Colonel's 
gloomiest  funds  of  sarcasm.  On  this  par- 


64  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

ticular  evening,  through  the  dinner  that  was 
now  promptly  served,  he  showed  himself  in 
a  mood  of  especial  bitterness. 

"I  hope  you  enjoyed  your  walk,  father," 
said  Alicia.  "  It  was  such  a  bright,  crisp 
afternoon." 

"Bright — crisp,"  muttered  the  Colonel,  as 
he  wiped  a  stain  of  soup  from  his  mous- 
tache— far  better  soup  than  he  had  for  a 
long  time  touched  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Square. 
"Say  staring  and  piercing.  That's  about 
what  your  Fifth  Avenue  was  while  I 
tried  to  walk  it.  The  pavements  were  full 
of  little  clots  of  snow  that  was  each  one 
a  peril  and  snare.  I  suppose  the  only 
thing  that  kept  me  from  breaking  my  legs 
was  that  beastly  pair  of  rubbers  with  corru- 
gated soles." 

"Don't  revile  them,  then,  Colonel,  if  you 
think  they  saved  you,"  said  Eninger.  He  had 
drilled  himself  into  one  changeless  tolerance 
of  the  Colonel's  morbid  assaults. 

"  You  must  have  seen  a  lot  of  pretty  girls 
with  nice  rosy  cheeks,  father,"  said  Alicia, 
"in  such  nipping  weather  as  this."  Her 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  65 

words  had  the  aim  of  dissipating  irony,  but 
they  only  fed  it  afresh. 

"  Pretty  girls!"  he  grumbled.  "Yes;  I 
saw  a  bevy  of  'em  just  now — four  or  five,  all 
slipping  along  together  like  hoidens,  and 
pushing  each  other  with  the  maddest  screams. 
I've  no  doubt  they  were  the  sorts  of  American 
girls  who  call  themselves  ladies.  They  were 
very  handsomely  dressed,  in  their  silks  and 
furs." 

"Perhaps  they  were  only  very  young 
girls,"  said  Alicia. 

"They  were  old  enough  to  do  indecent 
things,  however." 

"Indecent?  Really?"  observed  Eninger. 
"  Such  as  what,  pray?" 

"Wave  their  handkerchiefs  to  men  across 
the  street — men  whom  they  evidently  didn't 
know  from  Adam,"  growled  the  Colonel. 

"Oh,  they  couldn't  have  been  ladies, 
then!"  exclaimed  Alicia,  with  an  uneasy 
look  at  her  husband. 

Eninger  smiled,  with  a  little  impatient  toss 
of  the  head.  "They  may  have  been  well- 
reared  girls  enough." 


66  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"Well-reared!"  cried  the  Colonel.  "Oh, 
bless  ray  soul!  Come,  now!" 

"You  forget,"  pursued  Eninger,  "that 
the  American  girl  may  do  innocently  what 
the  English  girl  would  only  do.  immorally." 

"I  don't  understand,"  bristled  the  Colonel; 
"I  don't  understand  at  all!" 

"  Of  course  you  don't,"  said  his  son-in-law, 
coolly.  "It  would  be  rather  surprising  if 
you  did.  You  know  nothing  of  my  country, 
though  to  hear  you  professionally  abuse  it 
one  would  suppose  your  slanders  were  based 
on  some  sort  of  real  information." 

Here  Alicia  cast  him  a  beseeching  look, 
and  he  paused,  regretful  that  he  had  even 
said  thus  much.  But  from  that  hour  the 
Colonel  (who  had  reason  to  value  his  clem- 
ency) was  more  tactful  in  treating  interna- 
tional points. 

Perhaps  there  soon  appeared  causes  of  a 
social  kind  why  the  gruff  old  creature  should 
ivgjird  Americans  more  blandly.  Eninger 
hud  kindred  and  friends  in  town  who  at  once 
joined  forces,  as  it  were,  about  Alicia  and 
made  for  her  a  "circle."  She  swiftly  be- 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  67 

came  popular,  as  all  agreeable  Englishwomen 
do  in  New  York.  Her  sweet  face  and  even 
sweeter  voice  were  themes  of  loving  rapture 
among  damsels  whose  younger  sisters  might 
have  been  those  very  madcap  culprits  de- 
nounced by  the  Colonel.  Eninger  laughingly 
said  to  her  one  day  that  he  only  wished  he 
had  made  as  great  a  professional  as  matri- 
monial success.  Invitations  of  all  sorts  were 
handed  in  at  their  modish  little  oaken  door- 
way. Alicia  was  bewildered  at  meeting  so 
many  people  in  so  pell-mell  a  rush.  "I 
make  mistakes  in  their  names,"  came  her 
comic  wail;  "I  blunder  about  them  absurdly. 
The  women  don't  mind  it,  but  the  men  are 
so  sensitive."  She  was  all  the  more  win- 
some— and  especially  to  the  men — because 
of  these  bewilderments.  Her  complete  free- 
dom from  affectation  gave  the  dilemmas  in 
which  she  was  plunged  an  enchanting 
naturalness.  She  was  so  frank,  and  yet  so 
would-be  courteous,  that  no  one  dreamed  of 
feeling  affronted.  And  yet  one  afternoon, 
at  somebody's  tea,  when  she  addressed  Mrs. 
Wynkoop  Westerveldt  as  Mrs.  Tomlinson, 


68  FABIAN   DIMITKY. 

certain  followers  of  the  former  lady  thought 
that  she  would  never  pardon  so  irreverent  a 
mistake.  For  between  Mrs.  Westerveldt 
and  Mrs.  Tomlinson  stretched  a  wide  gulf — 
one  which  no  acquaintanceship  had  ever 
bridged,  and  which  was  firmly  guarded  by 
snobbery  from  undergoing  any  such  process. 
Mrs.  Tomlinson  was  a  clear-brained,  warm- 
hearted woman,  who  supported  a  large  fam- 
ily by  her  pen,  and  yet  found  time  to  see  a 
little  of  society  in  a  Paris  bonnet  and  a  pair 
of  chic  gloves,  paid  for  out  of  her  own  earn- 
ings. Mrs.  Westerveldt  was  a  woman  who 
had  in  all  her  life  scarcely  even  lifted  a 
finger  for  herself  and  never  had  done  so  for 
anyone  else.  But  one  woman  was  merely 
tolerated  among  the  gay  throngs  that  a 
healthy,  gregarious  impulse  made  her  now 
and  then  seek.  The  other,  rich,  calm  and 
somewhat  disdainful,  was  almost  courted 
like  a  queen. 

Mrs.  Westerveldt  did  not,  however,  show 
Alicia  the  slightest  pique.  She  was,  indeed, 
rather  more  polite  after  than  before  the 
commission  of  Mrs.  Eninger'  s  error. 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  69 

"You  and  I  should  know  one  another 
quite  well,"  she  said  very  sweetly.  "I  am 
an  old  friend  of  your  husband's.  Ask  him 
about  Gertrude  Ten  Eyck;  he  will  tell  you 
that  we  used  to  have  many  a  dance  together 
at  the  old  Delmonico  Assemblies  in  Four- 
teenth Street." 

She  smiled  brightly  as  she  said  this,  and 
it  occurred  to  Alicia  that  she  had  a  face  of 
marble,  with  ice  for  its  smile.  She  was  un- 
doubtedly beautiful,  but  did  not  her  beauty 
repel  rather  than  allure?  So  at  least  it 
seemed  to  her  present  observer,  who  had  yet 
no  idea  of  the  immense  condescension  which 
she  had  now  seen  fit  to  bestow. 

Later  this  fact  became  plain.  The  words 
of  Mrs.  Westerveldt  had  been  delivered  in  a 
crowded  drawing-room  on  Fifth  Avenue, 
and  near  her  stood  several  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen who  had  the  air  of  seeking  her  notice. 
But  she  did  not  bestow  any  upon  them.  She 
watched  Alicia  rather  closely  with  a  pair  of 
languid  gray  eyes,  and  soon  proceeded  to 
say  a  number  of  civil  things  that  were  ex- 
pressed with  a  neat,  terse  ease  of  phrase. 


70  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

Not  long  afterward,  a  babbling  little  man  of 
whose  name  poor  Alicia  was  totally  uncon- 
scious but  whom  she  recalled  having  met 
on  the  previous  day,  told  her  that  Mrs. 
Westerveldt  was  a  great  personage  in  New 
York  and  that  people  fought  for  the  honor 
of  darkening  her  doorways. 

Eninger  loathed  kettledrums,  and  had 
begged  off  from  going  to  this  one.  But  when 
his  wife  mentioned  to  him  that  she  had  met 
Mrs.  Westerveldt  his  face  brightened  nota- 
bly, and  he  at  once  said:  "Gertrude  Wes- 
terveldt? Dear,  dear — of  course  we  were 
great  chums,  once.  She  married  a  million- 
aire twice  her  age,  who  died  a  little  while 
after  the  wedding." 

"  She  looked  as  if  she  might  do  any  cold- 
blooded thing  like  that,"  said  Alicia. 

"  But  she  used  to  be  very  handsome." 

"  She  still  is,"  conceded  his  wife. 

Eninger  might  have  said  more,  but  he  pre- 
ferred to  keep  silent.  In  the  whirl  of  mer- 
riment that  now  caught  the  town,  he  pres- 
ently came  face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Wester- 
veldt. They  shook  hands  with  one  another 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  71 

and  talked  trifles.  Music  was  floating 
through  a  great  screen  of  glossy  leaves  just 
behind  them,  and  the  large  hall  in  which 
they  stood  was  dim  by  contrast  with  the 
stately  drawing-rooms  beyond.  Through 
the  doorway  of  one  of  these  they  could  see 
Alicia,  stationed  in  a  blaze  of  light,  talking 
blithely  to  a  little  crowd  of  men,  with  smiles 
on  her  sunny  English  face.  Two  or  three 
male  adherents  were  standing  near  Mrs. 
Westerveldt,  and  one  of  them  held  her  fan. 
It  was  always  like  that  with  her.  Wher- 
ever she  moved  there  were  gallants  wfro 
bowed  their  homage.  Sometimes  she  gave 
them  freezing  responses;  just  now  she  was 
quite  ignoring  them.  Her  gray  eyes,  indif- 
ferent and  yet  subtle,  had  lifted  themselves 
to  Eninger's  face  and  dwelt  there  intently. 

"  Your  wife  is  charming,"  she  presently 
said,  in  her  measured  voice. 

"Do  you  find  her  so?  I'm  very  glad  to 
learn  it." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  preferred  that  type." 

"You  mean — such  a  blond?" 

"Yes." 


72  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

He  gave  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 
"  How  can  one  ever  be  sure,  in  these  matters, 
until  the  time  comes?' ' 

"  You'  re  right.  One  can't  be.  But  you  must 
take  good  care  of  her,  now  you've  got  her." 

He  started  a  little.  "Oh,"  he  said,  "  she 
can  take  care  of  herself." 

"  Don't  be  so  very  certain.  Those  English 
women  are  not  like  us." 

He  smiled  as  he  watched  her,  so  serene, 
with  her  chiseled,  ivory  face,  her  diamonds 
and  her  dignity. 

"Not  cold,  like  American  w^omen,  you 
mean?"  He  felt  so  certain  of  Alicia  that  it 
merely  diverted  Mm  to  make  this  retort. 
Besides,  he  knew  that  it  hid  a  challenge. 

"Are  we  American  women  so  cold?"  she 
asked. 

One  of  her  retainers,  at  this  point,  dipped 
forward  with  the  mechanic  affability  of  his 
kind.  "  Your  fan,"  he  said,  and  extended 
it  to  her. 

"Thanks,"  she  returned,  taking  the  fan 
and  looking  at  him,  but  not  seeming  to  see 
him. 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  73 

"That  is  hardly  apropos"  she  went  on 
to  Eninger,  paying  no  more  attention  to  the 
gentleman  just  addressed.  "You've  called 
me  cold,  and  here  I'm  supplied  with  this." 
She  unfurled  it  softly,  and  its  wedge  of  rose- 
tinted  satin  showed  a  little  monogram  of 
diamonds  at  one  corner.  The  gentleman 
who  had  returned  it  did  not  depart.  He 
had  evidently  made  his  act  a  reason  for  re- 
maining longer  in  her  train  and  getting  a 
gracious  word  from  her  as  the  result  of  his 
devotion.  Bat  she  extended  him  no  notice 
whatever. 

Eninger  now  leaned  nearer  to  her  and 
said,  in  a  voice  and  with  a  way  that  had 
made  him  liked  and  courted  before  his  mar- 
riage, when  he  had  gone  a  great  deal  among 
the  fashionables  of  his  native  town: 

"Perhaps  the  fan  was  returned  to  you 
with  a  sarcastic  intent." 

"How?"  she  questioned,  somewhat  quickly, 
for  her. 

"  To  wake  the  little  real  spark,  concealed 
— deep  down." 

"  So  very  deep  downf    she  questioned, 


74  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

with  the  pupils  of  her  gray  eyes  momenta- 
rily wed  to  the  pupils  of  his.  "  Do  you  then 
really  think  me— you!— a  woman  like  that?" 
With  the  dulcet  wails  and  tremolos  of  the 
music  aiding  her,  she  contrived  to  make  her 
voice  sound  scarcely  louder  than  a  whisper 
to  him. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  stirred  by  old  memories 
and  swayed  by  the  flare  and  prattle  of  the 
hour,  "  I  think  you  (why  should  I  not  think 
you,  please?)  a  woman  without  an  emotion." 

He  saw  her  furtively  bite  her  lip.  He  had 
said  the  one  thing  that  the  world  had  always 
said  of  her  as  Gertrude  Ten  Eyck  and  that 
it  now  averred  still  more  stoutly  since  she 
had  become  Mrs.  Wynkoop  Westerveldt.  It 
occurred  to  him,  however,  that  perhaps  he 
had  done  her  a  somewhat  uncivil  turn  by 
his  candor,  even  though  it  had  borne  a  dainty 
sting  of  not  unflattering  flirtation.  But, 
as  if  in  sudden  antithesis  to  the  unemo- 
tional woman  he  had  just  called  her,  there 
appeared  at  his  side  a  woman  of  strongly 
opposite  type. 

She  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  gentleman 


FABIAN    DIMITKY.  75 

much  taller  than  herself,  and  it  would  not 
have  been  hard  for  her  to  find  an  escort  of 
this  eclipsing  stature.  She  was  fair  of  tress 
and  tinting,  and  over-plump  for  her  age, 
which  visibly  verged  on  forty.  She  was 
dressed  with  an  undue  youthfulness;  they 
had  jocosely  alleged  of  her  for  several  years 
that  she  flatly  refused  to  be  presented  at 
the  Court  of  St.  James  because  baby-waists 
and  sleeve-loops  were  impracticable  in  such 
a  surrounding.  On  her  fat  neck  sparkled  a 
string  of  phenomenal  rubies,  and  her  fleshf  ul 
arms  were  banded  with  circlets  of  like  gems 
almost  as  precious.  She  gave  Mrs.  Wester- 
veldt  a  short,  intimate  nod,  seemingly  tak- 
ing for  granted  that  it  was  returned,  and 
while  drooping  her  small  body  toward  Enin- 
ger,  broke  out  in  a  shrill,  amical,  falsetto 
voice: 

"  Your  wife  is  just  too  perfect!  We're  all 
crazy  about  her.  She's  a  tearing  success!'' 
Meanwhile  the  little  lady  had  given  his 
hand  a  vigorous  shake;  and  then,  with  the 
effect  of  being  dragged  off  by  her  compan- 
ion— an  effect  for  which  he  was  no  doubt 


76  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

blameless,  as  her  see-saw  and  almost  tum- 
bling walk  soon  evinced — she  passed  into  a 
living  thicket  of  guests,  grouped  one  or  two 
yards  beyond. 

Eninger  turned  toward  Mrs.  Westerveldt. 
"There's  your  old  aversion,"  he  murmured. 

"Don't  call  her  old,"  came  the  reply, 
while  there  seemed  scarcely  a  motion  from 
the  clean-cut  lips  that  gave  it.  "  She'd  par- 
don anything  except  being  called  old." 

He  laughed.  "It's  so  odd,"  he  said.  "In 
the  other  days  you  detested  her  so,  and  here 
I  come  back  to  New  York  and  find  you 
meeting  her  as  you  used  and  detesting  her 
as  you  used,  precisely  the  same." 

"  How  can  you  say  that?"  said  Mrs.  Wes- 
terveldt, faintly  smiling.  "People  only 
detest  when  they  feel.  But  you've  just  told 
me  that  I'm  a  woman  without  an  emotion." 

He  laughed  again.  "Oh,  hate  isn't  an 
emotion,"  he  said;  "  it's  a  manifestation." 

"Of  what?"  she  answered  chillingly,  with 
a  reaching  forth  of  her  arm  to  one  of  her 
attendants,  who  proffered  his  own  with  an 
obsequious  duck  of  the  figure,  as  though 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  77 

thrilled  by  such  a  favor.     "Of  bad  breed- 
ing, or  merely  dullness?" 

Before  he  could  reply  she  had  moved 
away,  and  while  the  possible  sarcasm  in  her 
placid  words  appealed  to  him,  he  asked  him- 
self if  he  had  dealt  her  an  offense.  But  her 
displeasure  or  the  reverse  of  it  seemed  a 
minor  affair  now.  In  the  time  not  long 
ago,  when  she  was  a  reigning  maiden  belle, 
he  had  cared  to  keep  in  her  good  books. 
But  now  all  that  was  changed.  Besides, 
had  they  not  often  smiled  together  over  her 
antipathy  for  this  rowdy  little  Mrs.  Atter- 
bury, who  a  moment  before  had  swept  past 
them?  It  was  the  glacial  Gertrude  herself, 
not  he,  who  had  given  Adela  Atterbury  that 
name  of  "rowdy."  The  two  women  had 
always  been  to  him  amusing  antipodes.  Miss 
Ten  Eyck,  with  her  patrician  reserves  and 
her  frosty  Jiauteur s,had  no  doubt  addressed 
rather  potently  his  own  cult  for  the  select, 
the  choice,  the  uncommon  in  all  dealings 
with  life.  Mrs.  Atterbury  had  always 
been  to  him  a  sort  of  unholy  bacchanal 
spectacle — a  maenad  in  a  baby-waist,  and 


78  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

without  as  much  as  one  idealizing  grape- 
leaf.  She  was  older  by  four  or  five  years 
than  Gertrude  Ten  Eyck,  and  although 
the  new  young  social  autocrat  met  her  every- 
where, she  was  even  then  married  to  her 
present  lord,  Lewson  Atterbury,  or  "  Lewsy," 
as  almost  everybody  called  him. 

"That  woman  is  my  horror,"  Miss  Ten 
Eyck  had  once  said  to  Eninger.  ' '  The  great 
trouble  is  that  I  can't  cut  her.  If  only  I 
could,  it  would  be  quite  different.  But  she 
was  Adela  Ostrander,  and  for  a  Ten  Eyck  to 
cut  an  Ostrander  would  be  ridiculous.  And 
yet,  as  it  is,  she  makes  my  flesh  creep.  She 
has  no  more  sense  of  her  position  than  if 
it  were  an  old  shawl.  She  drags  it  after  her 
through  the  highways  and  hedges.  Why, 
almost  any  reputable  person  who  pleases  can 
actually  know  her.  She's  not  the  faintest 
sense  of  what  it  means  to  keep  oneself  rare. 
How  can  society  deal  with  such  people? 
They're  like  traitors  inside  the  gates  of  a 
city  when  they've  been  born,  as  in  Adela' s 
case,  within  gentility's  limits.  But  the  bit- 
terest thing  of  all  is  that  one  must  go  to  her 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  79 

Wednesdays.  Oil,  the  rabble  at  those  Wed- 
nesdays! One  meets  there  the  most  impos- 
sible persons.  The  dreadful  little  woman 
has  what  she  calls  literary  tastes.  I  suppose 
she  has.  But  as  if  democracy  couldn't 
get  along  without  thrusting  itself  into  our 
good  old  families!  Its  field  is  certainly 
huge  enough  in  other  directions.  All  her  set 
ever  asked  of  her  was  to  marry  a  gentle- 
man and  behave  like  a  lady.  That  covers  a 
good  deal  of  ground,  I  grant;  but  birth  has 
its  exactions,  and  she's  a  living  defiance 
of  them  all." 

Those  odious  Wednesdays  yet  continued, 
however,  and  it  was  not  long  before  Eninger 
and  Alicia  went  to  one  of  them.  Mrs.  Atter- 
bury  had  had  a  fair  fortune  when  she  mar- 
ried, and  her  husband,  though  himself  in 
Wall  Street,  had  been  the  son  of  a  rich  silk- 
importer.  Their  added  incomes  enabled  them 
to  entertain  finely  in  a  home  of  smart  present- 
ments. Eninger  had  found  that  society  had 
changed  markedly  since  his  brief  relative 
absence.  But  he  was  unprepared  to  meet  so 
many  strange  faces,  even  in  the  drawing- 


80  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

rooms  of  Mrs.  Atterbury.  Among  the  faces 
that  were  not  strange  he  was  keenly  startled 
to  discover  that  of  Fabian  Dimitry. 

Fabian  looked  paler  and  somewhat  thinner 
than  when  last  seen  in  London.  His  brow 
and  eyes  appeared  to  have  gained,  for  this 
reason,  in  the  way  of  intellectual  beauty  and 
power.  Eninger  and  he  did  not  once  exchange 
glances;  this  may  or  may  not  have  been 
chance,  but  afterward  Alicia's  husband  felt 
inclined  to  think  that  Fabian  had  observed 
without  seeming  to  observe  him.  How  had 
it  been  with  his  wife?  He  took  occasion  to 
question  her  while  they  were  being  driven 
home  in  the  carriage. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  saw  him,"  returned  Alicia 
composedly.  "How  handsome  he  looked, 
did  he  not?" 

A  sudden  little  stab  of  jealousy  pierced  her 
hearer.  "  You  thought  so,  then?"  he  replied, 
with  almost  harsh  directness. 

' '  Of  course  I  did, ' '  she  affirmed.  ' '  He  is 
handsome.  Don't  you  agree  with  me,  Ray?" 

"Well— yes,"  he  acquiesced.  And  the 
carriage  rattled  clamorously  onward,  as 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  81 

vehicles  are  apt  to  do  over  the  stern-stoned 
thoroughfares  of  New  York. 

"It's  odd,"  Alicia  presently  said,  her 
suave  English  voice  breaking  in  with  melodi- 
ous effect  upon  the  strident  rumble  of  the 
wheels,  "it's  odd,  Ray,  how  much  we  can 
outlive  in  a  little  while!" 

"  And  you've  outlived ?"  he  began,  not 

ending  his  sentence,  but  letting  a  sudden 
clasp  of  his  hand  upon  her  own  end  it  in- 
stead. "Oh,  Alicia,  dearest,"  he  soon  went 
on,  "  you  can  truthfully  tell  me  that  there's 
no  afterthought — no  lingering  sentiment — 
no P 

"Hush,  Ray,"  she  shot  in,  with  speed  and 
yet  very  solemnly.  "  I  was  a  girl,  then;  I'm 
a  woman,  now,  and  you've  made  me  one.  I 
think  it' s  not  a  matter  for  us  to  talk  of  at 
much  length.  Only,  love,  I've  this  to  say: 
Not  merely  can  I  look  at  Fabian  Dimitry 
now  without  a  tremor  of  the  old  feeling,  but 
I  caught  myself  watching  him  to-night  (he 
never  seemed  to  know  if  I  was  there  at  all, 
by  the  by)  with  actual  wonderment  that  I 
should  ever  have  cared  for  him  as  I  did. 


82  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

Yes,  Ray,  wonderment  is  the  word — that, 
simply." 

As  she  paused  he  saw  by  the  flash  of  a 
lamp  through  the  window  that  tears  were 
glistening  in  her  eyes,  and  that  the  glance 
which  burned  from  them  was  passionately 
wistful.  In  another  moment  he  had  leaned 
down  and  seized  her  in  his  arms. 

* '  My  own — my  treasure !  You  are  all  mine, 
now!  I've  won  you  completely,  at  last!" 

"  You'd  won  me  weeks,  months  ago,"  she 
answered. 

"And  there's  not  a  gleam  left,  not  the 
dimmest,  of  that  old  feeling  for  Mmf" 

' '  No,  no!  not  the  dimmest.  It' s  quite  gone. 
It's  all  been  swallowed  up  in  my  deep, 
absorbing  love  for  you." 

He  had  ceased  from  his  fervid  caress,  but 
he  still  held  both  her  hands  in  the  darkness. 
One  of  them  was  gloveless,  and  that  he  lifted 
to  his  lips,  letting  it  rest  there  while  he 
touched  it  with  short,  soft  kisses.  And  after 
a  little  while  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  surprised 
IUT  because  it  was  so  grave,  with  no  trace  of 
joy  in  it  whatever: 


FABIAN    DIMITEY.  83 

' '  I  think  he  saw  us  both  quite  plainly  to- 
night. Perhaps  he  waited  for  me  to  give  him 
some  sign — or  for  you." 

"Forme,  Ray!"  she  exclaimed. 

"  You're  still  angry  with  him,  then?" 

' '  No — not  angry ;  I  can1 1  be  any  longer  .  . 
And  yet " 

"  You  don't  forgive  him." 

"  I — I  haven't  thought  about  it  lately." 

"  You  believed  that  he  treated  you  in  a 
really  dreadful  way.' ' 

"Ah,  yes,  "  she  murmured,  drooping  her 
head  in  the  dusk.  "But  why  speak  of  it 
now?" 

"  Because,"  he  said,  "I'm  certain  that  you 
wronged  him." 

"Wronged  him?"  she  flashed  out,  old 
memories  of  pain  and  revolt  seeming  to 
waken  in  her.  ' '  How  can  you  say  such  a 
thing?  You  can't  be  aware — 

"  F  m  aware  that  he  loved  you  very 
dearly,"  was  the  interruption,  "  and  that  he 
gave  you  up." 

He  saw  her  form  erect  itself  to  the  utmost 
where  she  sat  beside  him,  and  could  fancy 


84  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

that  he  glimpsed  an  indignant  sparkle  in  her 
eyes  as  well. 

"Pray,  for  what  reason,"  she  slowly  asked, 
"  did  he — give  me  up,  as  you  call  it?" 

Eninger  now  inly  cursed  his  own  folly. 
Why  had  he  thus  let  a  conscience-twinge 
betray  him  into  so  indiscreet  an  admission 
regarding  Fabian?  If  Alicia  had  never  sus- 
pected the  real  truth,  why  should  it  be  his 
office  to  enlighten  her? 

"Perhaps  the  renunciation  was  made  on 
my  account,"  he  said. 

"No,"  denied  Alicia,  with  ringing  tones. 
' '  Men  don' t  do  those  things  for  one  another. ' ' 
She  caught  her  husband's  arm  with  sudden 
and  tense  grasp.  "  I  understand,"  sped  her 
next  words. 

"Ray,  it  was  because  of —that  taint  in  our 
blood." 

He  remained  silent. 

"Ray." 

"Well?"  he  returned. 

"It  was  because  of  that.  Answer  me! 
Am  I  not  right?" 

"Perhaps." 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  85 

She  sank  back  in  the  carriage.  "I  was 
very  stupid — I  should  have  seen,"  he  heard 
her  mutter.  ' '  There  was  never  the  least  mean- 
ness about  him — and  he  was  the  sort  of  man 
who  could  have  held  his  hand  in  the  flames 
and  burned  it  off  if  some  noble  cause  made 
that  needful." 

These  were  by  no  means  loud  sentences, 
but  Eninger  heard  every  word  of  them.  He 
folded  his  arms,  there  in  the  gloom,  and  sat 
silently  gnawing  his  lip.  Who  could  say 
what  revulsion  in  Alicia  this  new  knowledge 
might  produce?  Suppose  it  undid  the  work 
of  months  and  left  her  once  more  in  love  with 
him  whom  she  had  learned  to  despise  as  a 
mere  coarse  trickster?  A  result  no  less 
grotesque  than  calamitous — and  yet  what 
wizard  had  ever  yet  been  found  keen  enough 
to  predicate  concerning  a  woman' s  heart? 


86  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 


V. 

It  was  quite  true  that  Fabian  had  seen 
both  Alicia  and  Eninger.  In  a  crowded  room 
one  can  very  often  see  without  appearing  to 
look. 

At  first  Fabian  feared  that  he  would  be 
obliged  to  quit  the  entertainment  altogether, 
for  the  image  of  Alicia  set  his  heart  leaping 
and  his  ears  humming  in  a  way  that  made 
him  dread  some  sort  of  piteous  public  col- 
lapse. But  soon  calmness  brought  its  prized 
relief.  He  then  wondered,  with  a  clearing 
brain,  what  idiocy  he  might  not  have  been 
saying  to  the  lady  in  whose  company  he  had 
stood.  But  among  our  dra, wing-rooms,  as  he 
might  have  recollected,  a  brain  may  often  go 
wool-gathering  without  any  decided  chance 
of  having  itself  seriously  missed. 

His  passion  for  Alicia  was  just  as  warm 
and  vital  as  it  had  ever  been,  and  the  wound 
dealt  him  by  his  own  act  of  self -sacrifice  had 


FABIAX    DIMITRY.  87 

suffered  cruel  re-opening  through  this  recent 
meeting  with  her.  He  had  not  wanted  to 
appear  at  Mrs.  Atterbury's  reception,  but 
that  lady  had  put  forth  quaint  and  voluble 
entreaties  which  finally  made  him  yield. 

He  had  always  disliked  society,  and  had 
shunned  it  in  a  way  rare  with  one  whose 
name  and  place  there  are  excellent  as  were 
his  own,  and  whose  purse  is  the  stanch  if  not 
corpulent  abettor  of  both.  Society,  he  was 
wont  to  say,  undermined  sincerity  in  the 
sincerest  people,  and  its  effect  upon  his 
friend,  Mrs.  Atterbury,  was  deplorable  to 
him  in  the  extreme.  Still,  he  would  not 
have  Adela  change  her  nature.  She  was  full 
of  refreshment  to  him  just  as  she  existed. 
He  had  never  even  remotely  dreamed  of  being 
in  love  with  her,  and  the  feeling  that  she 
woke  in  him  could  safely  have  been  called 
good-fellowship.  There  was  that  in  Adela 
Atterbury  which  made  him  freely  pardon 
her  vulgarity ;  but  he  would  never  have  found 
enough  in  Gertrude  Westerveldt,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  have  pardoned  that  lady  her  refine- 
ments. The  latter,  whom  he  had  met,  was 


88  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

merely  an  odious  snob  to  him;  but  in  Mrs. 
Atterbury,  with  all  her  loudness  and  eccen- 
tricity, he  recognized  the  worth  of  a  true- 
souled  woman.  It  amazed  him  that  she  could 
endure  some  of  the  people  on  whom  she 
smiled.  Not  a  few  of  those  who  would  have 
been  called  the  most  desirable  struck  him  as 
the  shabbiest  in  either  mind  or  manners. 
"I  don't  understand  you,"  she  had  said  to 
him  one  day.  "You're  a  democrat,  you 
despise  caste;  and  yet  you  mix  with  this 
quality  a  dislike  of  your  fellow-beings." 

"  You're  wrong,"  he  had  answered.  "I'm 
not  afraid  of  solitude,  and  I  greatly  prefer  it 
to  the  company  of  people  who  jar  upon  me." 

But  she  would  always  have  it  that  he 
shunned  his  kind.  There  were  moments 
when  she  seemed  to  him  so  prancing  and 
skittish  a  figure  that  he  could  not  help  wish- 
ing she  would  shun  hers  instead  of  thus 
gracelessly  courting  it.  The  way  she  clad 
herself,  and  the  intoxicated  style  in  which 
she  pursued  pleasures  that  to  one  of  her 
mind  and  age  should  have  appeared  wholly 
trivial,  often  pierced  him  with  repugnance. 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  89 

If  he  had  felt  a  grain  of  sexual  sentiment 
mingle  with  his  regard  for  her  he  might  have 
reproached  or  even  hotly  quarreled  with  her 
on  this  account.  As  it  was,  he  not  only  tol- 
erated, but  tried  quite  to  overlook  her  faults 
of  manner  and  taste,  while  letting  the  rays 
of  her  exceptional  intellect  meet  his  admir- 
ing eyes. 

Her  life  had  often  struck  him  as  a  tumult 
of  anomalies,  incongruities.  Without  appar- 
ent time  for  anything,  she  accomplished 
marvels.  She  patronized  literary  entertain- 
ments and  amateur  theatricals;  she  was 
ubiquitous  at  afternoon  teas;  she  never 
missed  a  new  play  unless  to  miss  it  were 
discretion;  she  was  never  absent  from  her 
box  at  the  opera  on  the  Wagner  evenings, 
and  bowed  before  that  mighty  musician 
with  no  blind  homage  but  a  keenly  clear- 
sighted one;  she  read  all  the  best  books  and 
a  few  that  were  good  neither  as  art  nor 
ethics;  her  charities  were  not  only  profuse 
but  personal,  and  for  her  jaunty,  buxom, 
ill-dressed  little  shape  to  pass  from  hospital 
to  drawing-room  was  an  occurrence  of  great 


90  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

frequency.  She  possessed  the  qualities  of  a 
brilliant,  social  leader,  but  it  is  doubtful  if 
she  could  ever  have  become,  even  in  some 
city  less  juvenile  and  provincial  than  New 
York,  any  except  the  peculiar  power  she  had 
here  made  herself.  A  chief  must  not  be  too 
approachable;  she  was  extremely  so.  He 
must  not  forget  dignity;  she  remembered  it 
about  as  much  as  might  a  fire-fly.  He  must 
not  show  himself  too  voluble;  as  someone 
cruelly  said  of  her,  she  had  a  tongue  with  a 
biceps  in  it.  And  lastly,  a  chief  must  have 
a  little  clan  of  retainers  and  adherents,  not 
averse  to  occasional  bowings  and  hand-kiss- 
ings;  her  associates  were  all  on  the  most  inti- 
mate terms  with  her,  and  thought  no  more 
about  the  making  of  deferential  salaams  to 
her  than  if  she  had  been  the  wife  of  a  city 
alderman. 

Since  Fabian's  return  from  England,  her 
warm  sympathy  with  him  as  a  writer  of 
plays  had  strengthened  their  previous  friend- 
ship. 

"You  can  do  it  if  anybody  can,"  she 
assmvd  him.  kk  I  guess  there  isn't  a  man  in 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  91 

this  country  who's  got  it  in  him  as  you 
have.  Last  night  we  had  a  box  at  Wai- 
lack's.  A  lovely  company,  but  such  a 
rubbishy  play,  my  dear  boy!  The  motive 
was  tame  and  mean  and  stale;  the  charac- 
ters were  all  weakly  drawn,  and  not  one  of 
them  developed  through  the  dramatic  and 
logical  action  of  events.  It  wasn't  art;  it 
was  cheap  trick.  It  wasn't  life;  it  was  a 
tawdry  lithograph  of  life,  in  a  frame  of  such 
beauty  and  taste  that  you  almost  fancied 
you  were  looking  at  something  poetic  and 
fine.  .  .  .  Winnie  Amsterdam  kept  gab- 
bling to  me  all  the  time.  He's  such  an  ass, 
you  know;  but  even  he  was  better  than  the 
play." 

Fabian,  though  well  accustomed  to  her 
leaps  from  sense,  and  sometimes  eloquence, 
into  slangy  trivialities,  now  coolly  answered: 

"  It  is  so  strange  to  me  that  a  woman  of 
your  brains  can  put  up  with  these  fellows 
whom  you  yourself  denounce  as  simple- 
tons." 

"Oh,  Lord,  we'd  have  a  sweet  time,  we 
women,"  she  exclaimed,  "if  we  only  allowed 


92  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

clever  men  to  talk  to  us.  We  can't  afford 
to  take  our  pick.  We've  either  got  to  poke 
off  at  home  or  else  we've  got  to  cast  our 
nets  for  all  kinds  of  fish.  But,  gracious 
me!  I  don't  want  to  complain.  I  have  a 
good  enough  time;  I  go  in  for  a  good  time, 
and  I  have  it.  By  the  bye,  when  I  got  home 
from  the  theatre,  last  night,  I  pitched  right 
into  that  book  of  poems  you'd  lent  me  a 
week  ago.  I  was  awfully  ashamed  of  myself 
that  I  hadn't  had  a  speck  of  time  to  look  at 
it  before.  We  were  right  here  in  this  very 
room,  Lewsy  and  I.  He  wouldn't  go  up  to 
bed — he  can  be  such  a  mule!  It  was  after 
twelve;  we'd  been  blown  off  at  Delmonico's 
by  Jimmy  Vanderveer.  Lewsy  fell  asleep 
on  that  lounge,  and  snored  horribly.  I  told 
him  this  morning  it  wasn't  only  the  cham- 
pagne; he'd  had  a  few  cocktails  in  the  after- 
noon, though  he  swore  he  hadn't.  But  then 
you  never  can  trust  Lewsy  about  cocktails; 
lit-  /.s  such  a  liar  when  he  tipples.  But  he 
can't  fool  me;  I  always  spot  him — always" 

' '  And  the  poems?' '  asked  Fabian.     ' '  Did 
you  care  for  them?" 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  93 

At  once  he  was  presented  with  a  new  Mrs. 
Atterbury — or  rather,  not  one  new  to  himself, 
for  he  had  observed  and  been  charmed  by 
her  in  this  same  vein  many  times  before. 

"Care  for  them?  Why,  the  man  has  a 
striking  gift.  He  can  turn  a  lyric  like  Heine. 
He  has  the  same  sense  of  saying  a  thing  as 
if  it  must  have  been  said  that  way,  and  not 
as  if  he'd  dragged  his  brains  to  find  the 
strongest  way  out  of  several  others  in  which 
it  miglit  have  been  said.  There' s  so  much 
in  that  inevitableness  of  phrase  and  of  intel- 
lectual process.  You  recognize  it  when  you 
meet  it.  You  can' t  explain  it,  but  the  truth, 
the  justice,  the  nicety,  the  felicity,  the  sin- 
cerity, all  strike  you.  This  young  poet 
ought  to  live.  I  mean,  of  course,  if  he  pre- 
serves his  ideal  with  the  proper  artistic  con- 
science. What  he  still  lacks,  I  should 
say,  is  a  secure  instinct  of  selection.  He 
doesn't  always  grasp  just  the  right  chute 
de  phrase,  and  he  doesn't  always  either 
choose  or  grasp  his  subject  as  he  might. 
But  there's  a  subtle  native  music  in  him 
that  delights.  I  felt  it,  in  spite  of  Lewsy's 


94  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

heavy  snores,  which  were  certainly  not 
musical." 

"Your  criticism  is  truth  itself,"  said 
Fabian.  He  looked  at  her  and  marveled 
at  her  queer,  repelling,  fascinating  many- 
sidedness. 

He  had  no  friend  who  was  so  near  to 
him  in  judgment  and  penetration  of  his 
own  work.  Eninger,  he  had  often  mused 
of  late,  might  have  told  him  things  that  even 
this  curious  and  notable  woman  might  not 
have  hit  upon.  Still,  Eninger  and  he  were 
forever  parted.  He  said  as  much  to  Mrs. 
Atterbury  after  the  reception  at  which  he 
had  seen  Alicia  and  her  husband. 

It  was  the  day  following  that  reception, 
and  the  hour  was  between  five  and  six  o'clock. 
His  hostess  had  chosen  to  be  at  home  to  him 
alone,  and  considering  her  countless  poten- 
tial engagements,  Fabian  could  not  help 
holding  this  concession  of  privacy  as  one 
that  teemed  with  compliment.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  him — it  never  could  occur  to 
him  in  any  ordinary  course  of  experience— 
that  she  might  possess  the  least  tender  occult 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  95 

reason  for  such  a  gracious  act.  She  was  a 
woman  whose  oddities  had  always  been  cele- 
brated for  pausing  at  the  ranker  kind  of 
scandals.  It  had  been  this  about  her  deport- 
ment; it  had  been  that  about  her  attire;  it 
had  been  the  other  thing  about  her  compan- 
ionships and  patronages.  But  about  her 
fixed  fidelity  to  the  man  whose  name  she 
bore  there  had  never  been  heard  even  a 
doubtful  whisper. 

Mrs.  Atterbury's  was  a  basement-house, 
and  the  reception-room  in  which  she  and 
Fabian  were  now  seated  looked  from  two 
heavily-draped  windows  immediately  forth 
on  the  street.  It  would  be  hard  to  plan  a 
room  of  richer  and  yet  more  harmonious 
tintings,  or  one  whose  embellishments  (all 
choice  and  costly)  were  disposed  with  a  nicer 
art.  The  contrast  between  this  irreproach- 
able room  and  the  absurdly  youthful  and 
tasteless  garb  of  his  friend,  as  she  sat  loung- 
ingly  near  him  with  her  small,  plump  body 
half  buried  in  cushions  and  her  small, 
plump  feet  placed  cross-wise  on  a  tufted  stool, 
struck  Fabian  as  at  once  sad  and  comic, 


96  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"  So  you  hated  my  Wednesday,  you  hor- 
rid thing,"  she  had  been  saying  to  him,  in 
affirmation  rather  than  query.  "Yes;  you 
needn't  deny  it.  Toward  the  last  you  looked 
not  merely  bored  out  of  your  boots,  but 
agonized.  What  was  the  reason  of  it?  Was 
it  fatigue  or  disgust?" 

"Neither,"  said  Fabian;  and  then,  with  an 
impulse  to  confide  in  her,  he  told  not  only  of 
his  agitation  at  lately  seeing  Alicia,  but  of 
his  former  engagement  and  its  gloomf ul  end. 
His  auditor  gave  him  the  most  rapt  attention 
till  he  had  finished.  Then  she  said,  with  a 
breaking  voice  and  humid  eyes: 

"You  gave  her  up  on — on  that  account! 
And  you  loved  her!" 

"  I  loved  her,"  said  Fabian. 

"It  was  saintly  of  you!  There "  and 

she  reached  out  one  of  her  fat  little  hands. 
"Just  give  it  a  shake— that's  right.  I 
oughtn't  to  have  called  it  saintly— heroic 
was  the  word.  No  wonder  you  know  how  to 
write  good  plays.  You've  got  a  nature  so 
high  that  you  can  see  from  it  right  straight 
down  into  other  people's." 


FABIAN    DIMITKY.  97 

"I  did  merely  what  I  could  not  help 
doing,"  he  returned. 

"  Oh,  precisely.  And  so  did  Ray  Eninger 
do  merely  what  lie  couldn't  help  doing.  But 
look  at  the  difference.  Well,  you're  crazy 
about  her  still,  I  suppose?" 

"I'm  still  in  love  with  her." 

"Ever  so  much?" 

He  smiled.     "  Yes;  ever  so  much." 

There  was  silence,  during  which  Mrs. 
Atterbury  stared  at  a  picture  on  the  opposite 
wall.  Suddenly  she  said,  with  a  quick  turn 
of  the  head  toward  where  he  sat: 

"Come  to  Egypt  with  Lewsy  and  me  this 
winter.  If  you'll  say  yes  I'll  start  inside 
of  a  week." 

"You  woman  of  quicksilver!"  he  said. 
"  Will  you  never  tire  of  darting  about?" 

"That's  no  answer,"  she  scoffed,  not  by 
any  means  playfully.  "Come  with  us. 
Make  up  your  mind,  and  come." 

"  Your  husband  in  Egypt!  He'd  jump  off 
the  highest  pyramid  he  could  find,  from 
sheer  ennui." 

"No  he  wouldn't.     Lewsy' s  too  fond  of 


98  FABIAN    DIMITBY. 

himself  and  all  his  belongings  ever  to  commit 
suicide." 

"I've  settled  down  to  work,  you  know,  in 
dead  earnest.  Travel  and  industry  are  sworn 
foes." 

"Nonsense,"  she  retorted,  biting  her  lip, 
while  her  face  clouded.  "  You'll  just  stay 
here  and  eat  your  heart  out." 

"Not  at  all,"  he  said.  "I'll  stay  here 
and  try  to  get  a  manager  and  a  theatre  for 
one  of  my  plays." 

She  gave  a  nod  or  two  of  ironic  assent. 
"Oh,  of  course!  And  not  make  another 
effort,  I  suppose,  to  see  her  even  once  again!" 

"No."  And  the  little  word  could  not  have 
sounded  firmer  if  his  lips  had  been  of  bronze 
and  had  spoken  in  some  sort  of  metallic  lan- 
guage. 

"  That's  hardly  human,"  said  his  listener, 
" though  Heaven  knows  you've  given  proof 
of  being  almost  superhuman.  You  can't 
but  realize  that  she  must  still  care  for  you — 
provided  she  ever  cared." 

"Oh,"  he  replied,  "I  dare  say  she  de- 
spises me.  Eninger,  you  know,  may  have 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  99 

told  her  nothing  as  to  my  real  motive  in 
giving  her  up.  And  I — well,  well,  I  some 
how  could  not  tell  her.  I  left  her  to  suspect. 
Perhaps  she  did  not,  and  if  she  did  not,  then, 
as  I  have  said,  she  despises  me." 

He  spoke  these  words  with  much  quietude, 
but  with  that  unconscious  hint  of  inward 
funds  of  power  that  eludes  all  definition  or 
portrayal.  Adela  Atterbury,  as  she  watched 
him,  thought  how  simply  yet  loftily  great 
he  had  shown  himself.  "  Ah,"  she  now  ex- 
claimed, "it's  a  shame  that  any  woman 
should  be  so  deceived.  She  ought  to  know 
the  truth.  It's  not  common  justice  to  your- 
self that  you  should  let  her  stay  in  ignorance 
of  it.  If  she's  half  the  true  woman  her 
face  indicates,  she'd  not  only  pardon  you, 
but " 

"Love  me  all  the  better,  perhaps  you 
mean!"  And  as  Fabian  thus  made  interrup- 
tion he  spoke  with  a  far  more  bitter  accent 
than  any  which  he  often  used.  "Ah,  no; 
she's  a  wife  now,  and  pray  Heaven  she  may 
be  a  happy  one.  I  go  out  into  the  world  so 
little  that  the  chances  are  slender  of  my  ever 


100  FABIAN    DIMITEY. 

meeting  her  again.  Still,  I  shall  always 
like  to  know  that  fate  has  been  good  to  her; 
I  shall  like  to  watch  from  a  distance  the  way 
in  which  it  shapes  her  future." 

"I  see!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Atterbury,  push- 
ing away  her  footstool  and  giving  one  of 
her  silken  pillows  a  subversive  toss.  "  You 
will  like  to  be  a  martyr  for  the  rest  of  your 
days.  Ah,  talk  of  virtue  being  its  own 
reward,  and  of  the  joys  reaped  from  self- 
abnegation!  For  a  completely  jolly  life 
commend  me  to  the  man  who  serves  self, 
not  to  him  who  slays  it." 

"I  don't  claim  to  be  a  slayer  of  self, 
nor  even  its  disciplinarian,"  said  Fabian, 
while  the  repose  of  his  manner  contrasted 
oddly  with  the  fret  of  hers.  "But  if  both 
were  true  I  should  expect  greater  happiness, 
all  told.  For  say  what  we  will,  that  deli- 
cate, yet  splendid  moral  hardihood  which 
renounces  every  pleasure  tainted  with  evil 
is  more  sensitive  both  to  joy  and  pain 
than  the  weakness  from  which  temptation 
seldom  gets  a  rebuff.  The  vine  that  climbs 
high  has  tendrils  which  the  tap  of  one's 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  101 

finger-nail  could  wound,  yet  which  almost 
might  win  vantage  from  a  wall  of  polished 
marble." 

"Ah,  save  that  sort  of  diamond-dust  to 
sprinkle  over  your  plays,"  replied  Mrs. 
Atterbury,  with  a  little  skeptic  laugh.  "It's 
brilliant,  and  even  the  gallery  might  like  it 
if  used  with  due  economy." 

"Don't  try  to  be  cynical,  my  friend," 
said  Fabian;  "it's  the  one  intellectual  effort 
to  which  you're  clearly  unequal." 

Her  face  softened,  and  she  looked  at  him 
with  a  steadfast  glow  in  her  honest  hazel  eyes. 

"I'd  show  you  how  kind  I  could  be  if/ 
were  only  that  fate  you  j  ust  spoke  of.  Oh,  but 
the  fates  were  three,  were  they  not?  Well, 
I'd  choose  to  be  the  one  with  the  shears. 
I'd  use  them  to  cut  off  Ray  Eninger  in  the 
nower  of  life,  and  make  your  Alicia  a  bewil- 
dering young  widow." 

"  As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  you'd  be  throw- 
ing away  your  time,"  said  Fabian,  with  a 
smile  that  just  hovered,  and  no  more,  at  the 
edges  of  his  placid  lips. 

"What!"  she  burst  forth,  her  sympathetic 


102  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

gaze  changing  to  one  of  suspicious  poign- 
ancy. "Do you  really  mean  that  you  never 
have  moments  of  the  least  regret  for  acting 
as  you  did?" 

"I  would  do  it  over  again  if  it  were  to 
do,"  -he  answered.  Then  a  light  seemed  to 
break  on  his  noble  and  gentle  face  as  he 
added:  "  Do  you  know  what  I  often  long  to 
hear  concerning  her?" 

"What?"  asked  the  lady,  a  little  tartly, 
and  as  if  out  of  patience. 

"That  she's  very  happily  married  to  her 
husband  and  has  quite  fallen  in  love,  with 
him." 

Feeling  thus,  Fabian  might  have  been 
gratified  by  an  interview  which  took  place 
between  Eninger  and  his  wife  that  very  even- 
ing. Until  then  the  husband  had  felt  as  if 
a  heavy  seal  of  silence  had  been  laid  upon 
his  lips.  For  over  twelve  hours  he  scarcely 
<'xHi;iu<rp<l  a  word  with  Alicia.  To  glance 
at  her  was  to  see  how  assertive  were  the 
thoughts  that  engrossed  her.  Their  dinner 
\v:i.s  horrible  to  him. 

They  were  alone,   the  Colonel   being  ill 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  103 

upstairs  with  a  cold.  As  soon  as  the  serv- 
ant had.  disappeared,  Eninger  resolved  in  des- 
peration that  some  sort  of  stop  should  be 
put  to  the  terms  on  which  he  and  his  wife 
at  present  stood.  For  himself,  he'  had  a 
sense  of  grimmest  foreboding.  He  felt  as  if 
Alicia  might  at  any  moment  say  to  him  that 
she  could  no  longer  love  him  in  the  least — 
that  her  love  had  flown  back  like  a  humming- 
bird to  Fabian  Dimitry.  In  such  case  what 
should  he  do?  She  had  become  the  air  he 
breathed,  his  sky  overhead,  his  earth  under- 
foot. If  she  failed  him  now,  he  would  feel 
as  though  he  had  but  to  stumble  across 
whatever  blood-smeared  threshold  the  finger 
of  suicide  should  point  out. 

When  they  were  alone  together  he  slowly 
rose  from  his  place  at  the  small  round  table 
and  went  toward  her. 

"Alicia,"  he  began,  hating  the  sound  of 
his  own  voice  because  it  seemed  to  him  so 
timid,  "  I've  an  idea  that  you  are  very  angry 
with  me." 

"  Angry?"  she  said,  and  started.     "  Why 
pray?" 


104  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

He  sank  into  another  chair  at  her  side. 
"  Oh,  because  I  told  you  a  certain  thing  and 
told  it  at  so  late  an  hour." 

She  appeared  lingeringly  to  waken  from  a 
dream,  and  searched  his  face  in  a  half -dazed 
way.  Then  she  put  out  her  hand  and  let  it 
rest  on  Eninger's  arm.  The  touch  of  her  soft 
fingers,  though  merely  the  faintest  of  press- 
ures, gave  him  a  thrill  like  those  known  in 
the  days  of  their  betrothal. 

" I  have  been  very  thoughtless,  Ray,"  she 
murmured.  "Not— not  that  I'd  forgotten 
you — how  could  that  be  possible?  But  what 
you  told  me  of  him — ah!  how  greatly  he 
must  have  suffered!  I  see  his  character  in  a 
new  sublime  light." 

Eninger  gnawed  his  lip.  "And  this  has 
kept  you  so  abstracted,  so  strangely  absent- 
ininded?"  he  asked.  "You  were  thinking 
all  the  while  of  Fabian  Dimitry.  You  were 
remembering  that  you  had  lost  him,  perhaps 
forever,  and  that  I  stood  here  in  his  place  MS 
his  poor  and  unworthy  substitute." 

"  You!  no,  Ray,  no!"  She  sprang  to  her 
feet,  and  while  he  still  remained  seated  she 


FABIAN    DIMITBY.  105 

put  both  arms  about  his  neck  with  an  air  of 
infinite  fondness.  "You  have  your  own 
place,  always,  as  my  husband.  I  don't 
regret  having  lost  him,  as  you  phrase  it. 
And  it  is  not  because  of  him  that  I  have  been 
plunged  all  day  in  meditation,  melancholy, 
what  you  will.  Ah,  no,  Ray,  it's  because  of 
all  that  his  act  reminds  me  of!" 

She  palpably  shivered,  and  her  eyes  dilated 
as  if  with  sudden  piercing  terror.  She  clung 
to  him,  now,  like  a  frightened  child.  "  Oh, 
Ray!"  she  cried,  "this  curse,  this  doom!  It 
has  never  seemed  so  possible,  so  near,  so 
threatening,  as  now!  If  lie  felt  that  way, 
what  danger  there  must  have  been,  and  still 
must  be!  The  '  sins  of  the  parents' — ah,  how 
frightful  a  meaning  lies  hid  in  those  words 
of  Scripture!" 

"Alicia!"  cried  Eninger.  He  rose  and 
gathered  her  to  his  breast.  "Oh,  my  wor- 
shiped! Who  cares  for  those  venomous 
words  now?  Only  bigots  and  dreamers. 
There  is  no  danger.  You  are  always  with  me, 
and  I  watch  you— I  watch  you.  Your  father 
hasn't  been  stricken.  You've  many  chances 


106  FABIAN    DIMITEY. 

of  release,  of  exemption.  Kiss  me  on  the  lips, 
my  wife— again— again!  It's  perfect  to  feel 
that  you  still  love  me!" 

"  Still-love  you,  Ray?  I " 

"  Never  mind.  I  feel  it,  now;  I  shall  never 
doubt  it  after  this— never,  never!" 

He  meant  the  words,  from  his  soul.  While 
he  clasped  her  in  his  arms  he  had  a  sense  of 
relief  that  shot  its  bounds  into  ecstasy.  But 
abruptly,  and  before  he  could  feel  quite 
assured  of  the  truth,  he  discovered  that  she 
was  quivering  with  agitation.  Soon  her  sobs 
rang  out,  in  the  pathos  of  their  incoherency. 
She  had  buried  her  head  stoopingly  between 
his  arm  and  breast;  but  on  a  sudden  he  felt 
her  form  relax,  and  then  swiftly  he  knew 
that  she  had  swooned  in  his  embrace. 


FABIAN   DIMITBY.  107 


VI. 


She  was  ill  for  several  days,  though  not  in 
the  least  serious  way.  He  insisted,  as  her 
physician,  that  she  should  lie  in  bed,  and 
now  and  then  he  somewhat  sternly  opposed 
her  desires  to  be  up  and  moving  about.  The 
Colonel,  incessantly  watchful  of  her  and  but 
half  recovered  from  his  late  assault  of  bron- 
chitis, had  harsh  things  to  say  of  her  illness. 

"It's  this  beastly  climate,"  he  averred; 
"  nothing  else  has  done  it,  nothing  else  under 
heavens.  They  call  it  dry.  Quite  so.  It 
dries  up  the  human  tissues.  My  throat's 
never  before  been  what  it  is  now.  It's  been 
bad,  I  admit,  but  it's  never  been — Oh,  by 
Jove,  there's  a  tang  in  the  wind  here  that  we 
poor  invalids  have  got  to  grovel  to!  I  suppose 
the  natives  don't  feel  it  as  we  do.  They  don't 
— ah — use  their  throats  quite  so  much.  I 
mean,  to  talk  through,  you  understand.  They 
use  their  noses.  Yes,  their  noses.  I  was 


108  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

never  so  knocked  up  at  'ome  as  here — never, 
bad  as  I've  been  time  and  again  in  the  old 
country." 

Eninger  scarcely  heard  the  Colonel's  audi- 
ble musings.  He  was  thinking  at  first  of 
Alicia,  and  then,  just  as  he  began  to  feel  cer- 
tain that  her  low  pulse  and  dubious  tempera- 
ture had  yielded  to  treatment,  a  sharp  crash 
of  hurt  beset  him. 

The  failure  of  the  great  banking-house, 
Auchester  and  Tyng,  made  him  tremble  with 
regard  to  certain  bonds  and  deposits.  They 
meant,  for  the  most  part,  his  pith  and  kernel 
of  income.  He  rushed  "  down  town  "  in  dis- 
array, and  found  himself  but  one  of  a  wild- 
eyed  throng  besieging  doors  that  had  aired 
for  years  above  their  lintels  almost  the  solid 
credit  of  the  Bank  of  England  itself.  Noth- 
ing could  be  done;  all  to  do  was  to  wait,  and 
to  wait  was  to  do  nothing,  naturally,  except 
to  palpitate.  Alicia  quickly  caught  the  con- 
tagion of  his  alarm,  much  to  his  regret. 
Eninger  had  wild  thoughts,  as  he  watched 
lu-r  anxious  face,  regarding  immediate  settle- 
ments upon  her  that  would  lift  her  from 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  109 

depths  of  his  own  insolvency  into  secure  if 
modest  competence.  They  had  already  issued 
cards  for  a  large  tea,  and  a  day  before  this 
event  he  found  his  wife  tremulous,  agitated. 

"My  dear  Alicia,"  he  said,  "the  enter- 
tainment is  all  right  It  doesn't  trench 
deeply  on  our  purse;  it's  a  trifle,  and  pray 
only  think  of  it  as  one." 

"I  can't,  I  can't,"  faltered  Alicia.  "It 
seems  as  if  we  were  doing  a  most  reckless 
thing,  Ray.  It  seems  as  if  we  were  flying  in 
the  very  face  of  poverty." 

He  gave  her  certain  details  of  his  financial 
reservations  and  expectancies.  They  were 
not  large,  but  he  made  them  sound  larger 
than  they  were,  just  for  the  purpose  of  com- 
forting her.  Still,  they  did  not  comfort,  and 
when  the  day  of  the  tea  came  she  was  un- 
strung, haggard,  by  no  means  herself. 

Mrs.  Westerveldt  and  Mrs.  Atterbury  met 
in  Eninger's  drawing-rooms,  as  they  met  in 
so  many  others.  The  festivity  was  really 
charming,  with  no  trace  of  the  gloom  that 
had  fallen  over  the  fortunes  of  its  givers. 

"Your    wife    doesn't    seem  well,"    Mrs. 


112  FABIAN    DIMITBY. 

Auchester  and  Tyng  gave  him  a  new  chance 
for  gibe  and  slur.  "Bless  me,  I  wouldn't 
have  thought  it  possible, ' '  he  declared.  '  'But 
then  there's  a  kind  of  American  dishonesty 
that's  like  your  prairies  or  your  blizzards. 
It  beats  the  world  for  size  and  strength." 

The  uncertainty  of  his  position  made  it 
harder  for  Eninger  to  bear.  There  still 
remained  a  most  irritant  doubt  as  to  just 
how  much  had  been  left.  Meanwhile  Alicia' s 
health  gave  him  other  cause  for  anxiety. 
There  were  moments  when,  he  told  himself, 
with  a  cold  pang  at  the  heart,  that  she  was 
falling  under  the  same  dread  ban  which  had 
been  so  often  visited  upon  her  race.  Then  he 
would  laugh  at  his  own  fears  and  call  them 
reckless  borrowing  of  trouble.  A  wander- 
ing eye,  a  touch  of  pallor,  an  air  of  lan- 
guor—were these  of  necessity  the  signs  and 
symptoms  that  waited  on  madness?  Besides, 
had  not  her  father  escaped,  and  why  should 
not  she  escape  as  well?  Plainly,  these  losses 
had  been  a  shock  to  her.  In  her  sleep  he 
had  heard  her  murmur  words  that  were  like 
a  moaning  protest  against  the  potential 


FABIAN    DIMITBY.  113 

scourges  of  poverty.  Then,  too,  he  would 
notice  her  reluctance  to  spend  the  smallest 
amount  of  money  for  what  was  sometimes 
the  most  needed  purchase.  And  yet  he  had 
long  ago  become  certain  that  her  nature  was 
not  in  the  least  mercenary.  This  frugality, 
this  pinching  economy,  distressed  him,  and 
he  one  day  begged  of  her  that  she  would 
strive  to  be  her  old  self  again.  To  his  annoy- 
ance her  answer  was  a  burst  of  tears,  fol- 
lowed by  a  sort  of  hysteric  embrace. 

"I — I  want  so  very  much  to  act  more 
bravely  and  sensibly,  Ray,"  she  quivered. 
"But  it's  the  hardest  thing,  I  find,  to  get 
that  one  haunting  thought  out  of  my  brain: — 
perhaps  we  may  not  have  enough  left  to 
shield  us  against  starvation." 

"Starvation!"  he  echoed.  "Oh,  Alicia, 
calm  all  fears  of  that  sort." 

"I  wish  I  could,"  she  answered,  with  the 
big  tears  glistening  on  her  cheeks  and  hang- 
ing from  her  lashes.  "But  oh,  we  were  so 
near  it  once,  father  and  I — so  near  it,  so  hate- 
fully near  it  once!" 

"Alicia!"   cried    Eninger,    "there   is  no 


112  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

Auchester  and  Tyng  gave  him  a  new  chance 
for  gibe  and  slur.  "Bless  me,  I  wouldn't 
have  thought  it  possible, ' '  he  declared.  '  'But 
then  there's  a  kind  of  American  dishonesty 
that's  like  your  prairies  or  your  blizzards. 
It  beats  the  world  for  size  and  strength." 

The  uncertainty  of  his  position  made  it 
harder  for  Eninger  to  bear.  There  still 
remained  a  most  irritant  doubt  as  to  just 
how  much  had  been  left.  Meanwhile  Alicia' s 
health  gave  him  other  cause  for  anxiety. 
There  were  moments  when,  he  told  himself, 
with  a  cold  pang  at  the  heart,  that  she  was 
falling  under  the  same  dread  ban  which  had 
been  so  often  visited  upon  her  race.  Then  he 
would  laugh  at  his  own  fears  and  call  them 
reckless  borrowing  of  trouble.  A  wander- 
ing eye,  a  touch  of  pallor,  an  air  of  lan- 
guor—were these  of  necessity  the  signs  and 
symptoms  that  waited  on  madness?  Besides, 
had  not  her  father  escaped,  and  why  should 
not  she  escape  as  well?  Plainly,  these  losses 
had  been  a  shock  to  her.  In  her  sleep  he 
had  heard  her  murmur  words  that  were  like 
a  moaning  protest  against  the  potential 


FABIAN    DIMITBY.  113 

scourges  of  poverty.  Then,  too,  he  would 
notice  her  reluctance  to  spend  the  smallest 
amount  of  money  for  what  was  sometimes 
the  most  needed  purchase.  And  yet  he  had 
long  ago  become  certain  that  her  nature  was 
not  in  the  least  mercenary.  This  frugality, 
this  pinching  economy,  distressed  him,  and 
he  one  day  begged  of  her  that  she  would 
strive  to  be  her  old  self  again.  To  his  annoy- 
ance her  answer  was  a  burst  of  tears,  fol- 
lowed by  a  sort  of  hysteric  embrace. 

"I — I  want  so  very  much  to  act  more 
bravely  and  sensibly,  Ray,"  she  quivered. 
"But  it's  the  hardest  thing,  I  find,  to  get 
that  one  haunting  thought  out  of  my  brain: — 
perhaps  we  may  not  have  enough  left  to 
shield  us  against  starvation." 

"Starvation!"  he  echoed.  "Oh,  Alicia, 
calm  all  fears  of  that  sort." 

"I  wish  I  could,"  she  answered,  with  the 
big  tears  glistening  on  her  cheeks  and  hang- 
ing from  her  lashes.  "But  oh,  we  were  so 
near  it  once,  father  and  I — so  near  it,  so  hate- 
fully near  it  once!" 

"Alicia!"   cried    Eninger,    "there   is  no 


114  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

danger  like  that  now.  Force  the  fear  from 
your  mind.  We  may  find  it  best  to  go  into 
the  country  and  live,  but  surely  that  will 
be  a  long  way  from  the  beggary  you've 
brooded  over." 

On  the  evening  of  the  Westerveldt  dinner 
she  came  down-stairs  to  meet  her  husband 
in  a  gown  that  became  her  charmingly.  But 
after  he  had  surveyed  her  costume  for  a 
minute  or  so,  Eninger  said: 

"  My  dear,  you  have  forgotten  something." 

"What?"  she  asked. 

"Your  diamonds." 

"Oh,  I  thought  I  wouldn't  wear  them, 
Ray."  The  color  mounted  into  her  face  and 
then  died  out  again. 

"Not  wear  them!"  he  said.  "But  they're 
really  very  fine.  That  brooch  of  my  moth- 
er's  " 

"  Yes,  I  know,  Ray;  it's  exquisite.  They're 
all  exquisite.  But  I  must  tell  you  that  I — 
I've  a  horror  of  losing  them." 

"Losing  them!" 

"  Yes.  We— we  need  all  we  have  now,  Ray, 
and— well,  I  won't  try  and  explain  my  queer 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  115 

feeling;  it's  better,  no  doubt,  that  I  should 
not.  But  you' 11  understand,  I'm  sure,  and — 
and  humor  me." 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  restless  eyes 
and  a  troubled  smile,  as  he  took  one  of  her 
hands  in  each  of  his  own.  "No,  Alicia,"  he 
returned,  gently  enough,  but  with  an  excess- 
ive latent  firmness;  "I  will  not  humor  you 
to-night,  for  I  think  it  would  be  doing  you 
an  unkindly  act.  These  nervous  caprices 
are  perilous  things,  my  dear,  unless  we  learn 
to  master  them.  You  must  go  upstairs  again 
(forgive  me  if  I  speak  in  tones  of  command) 
and  put  on  those  diamonds." 

"But,  Ray,"  she  began,  "I- 

"No,  my  dear;  there  must  not  be  any 
refusal.  Go."  He  kissed  heron  the  forehead 
and  released  her  hands. 

She  stared  at  him  with  an  odd  fixity  for  an 
instant,  and  then  quietly  quitted  the  room. 
Eninger  flung  himself  into  a  chair  after  she 
had  gone,  with  a  long,  heavy  sigh. 

What  did  it  mean?  Such  a  fancy  as  that! 
She,  the  daughter  of  a  long  line  of  gentlefolk, 
to  be  afraid  of  wearing  a  few  diamonds 


116  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

because  there  was  a  chance  of  her  losing 
them! 

The  young  husband  sat  for  some  little  time 
with  bowed  head  and  a  sense  of  fatal  despond- 
ency. He  had  had  so  much  to  torment  him,  of 
late — and  yet  what  was  the  loss  of  every  dol- 
lar he  owned  compared  with  any  calamity  to 
her!  Just  such  queer  freaks  and  whims  as 
these  meant  in  some  cases  the  subtle  ap- 
proaches of  mental  malady;  his  knowledge  of 
the  human  brain  and  nervous  system  assured 
him  of  this  fact,  and  yet  he  could  not  be  the 
physician  he  was  and  not  realize  that  hundreds 
of  people  lived  on  for  years  with  "  fads  "  and 
hallucinations  of  a  far  more  serious  kind, 
dying  at  last  in  the  full  possession  of  so- 
termed  sanity. 

Alicia's  entering  step  roused  him,  and  he 
sprang  up,  to  see  her  with  that  delicate,  yet 
brilliant,  change  in  her  apparel  which  was 
precisely  what  he  had  felt  that  it  lacked. 

"You  look  a  hundredfold  better!"  he 
cried.  "  That  aigrette  in  your  golden  hair, 
my  darling,  is  like  the  morning-star  over 
Maud's  garden, 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  117 

'  Beginning  to  melt  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky.'" 

He  laughed  aloud  at  his  own  rhapsody, 
although  the  laugh  had  no  really  mirthful 
ring.  Alicia  was  nearly  speechless  until  they 
reached  the  Westerveldts' .  There  Eninger 
almost  lost  sight  of  her  for  at  least  three 
hours.  He  sat  next  to  Mrs.  Westerveldt 
while  the  palates  of  about  twelve  assembled 
guests  were  being  tempted  and  tickled.  This 
was  done,  as  everybody  agreed,  with  striking 
success.  He  had  never  seen  his  hostess  more 
suave  and  yet  more  statue-like.  She  made 
him  think  of  snow  with  a  rose-colored  light 
upon  it.  On  her  other  hand  sat  the  duke,  a 
little  dark  man  who  looked  like  a  Hebrew 
jockey.  She  was  by  no  means  over-civil  to 
his  grace,  as  Eninger  could  not  help  remark- 
ing. He  forgot  her  coldness,  her  stony  am- 
bition, her  pagan  views  of  life,  as  he  sipped 
the  perfect  wines  of  her  feast  and  watched 
her  fair,  patrician  profile. 

Suppose  he  had  married  this  jvoman, 
after  all.  Perhaps  he  might  have  done 
it;  she  had  married  Wynkoop  Westerveldt 


118  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

with  a  dash  of  wild  desperation  in  the 
deed  which  very  few  people  were  aware 
of,  but  of  which  they  said  that  he,  Ray 
Eninger,  alone  held  the  real  secret.  As 
Gertrude  Ten  Eyck  she  had  had  a  large 
fortune.  And  in  Tier  veins  ran  no  blood 
tainted  by  madness.  She  might  have  borne 
him  healthful  and  beautiful  children.  As  it 
was,  he  must  stay  childless,  with  a  wife  who 
struck  a  chill  through  him  if  she  but  passed 
a  restless  night. 

Thoughts  like  these  were  grossly  selfish, 
and  Eninger  loved  his  wife  too  dearly  to  in- 
dulge them  in  any  meaning  mood.  But  he 
had  felt  wearied  and  forlorn  on  coming 
hither,  and  now  there  was  a  certain  sort  of 
exhilarant  balm  in  the  words  and  ways  of 
Gertrude  Westerveldt.  Her  own  prosperity, 
:ind  a  thought  of  his  financial  downfall,  had 
possibly  combined  to  bring  forth  in  him  that 
worldliness  which  so  many  of  us  hide  at  the 
mystic  bases  of  our  being. 

"If  it  were  a  matter  of  any  moment  to 
you,"  he  said,  at  length,  "I  should  tell  you 
that  your  dinner  is  faultless." 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  119 

"  Does  that  mean  you  enjoy  it?"  she  re- 
plied. "  For  your  doing  so  must  be  a  mat- 
ter of  moment." 

"Ah,  you're  graciousness  itself." 

"And  it's  all  learned  by  rote,"  she  said, 
between  little  mellow  ripples  of  laughter. 
"It's  wholly  mechanical,  without  a  single 
spontaneous  touch." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  No?  But  you  should.  You  know  me  so 
well." 

"Not  half  so  well  as  I  should  like  to." 
He  took  quite  a  deep  draught  of  some  ice- 
cold  brut  champagne  as  he  spoke.  Just  over 
the  rim  of  his  glass,  as  it  were,  he  saw  the 
silvery  gray  of  her  eyes  gazing  at  him,  no 
keener  than  would  have  been  two  mist- veiled 
autumn  stars. 

"  But  you  must  know  me  very  well,"  she 
insisted,  "  or  you  would  never  have  passed 
judgment  upon  me  in  the  grand  way  that 
you  did  pass." 

"  I?"  he  murmured. 

"Oh,  yes.  Burnish  your  memory  a  little, 
tt  happened  only  the  other  day.  You  said 


120  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

it  in  perfectly  cold  blood,  too.  Can't  you 
remember  it?" 

"Oh,  you  mean —  "  he  began,  a  trifle 
stammeringly. 

"That  I  was  a  woman  without  an  emo- 
tion," she  broke  in,  her  smooth  and  vibrant 
voice  seeming  somehow  guiltless  of  any 
interruption  at  all.  But  instantly  the  voice 
changed,  and  she  spoke  with  a  new  kind  of 
softness — one  with  which  rebuke  was  deli- 
'cately  mingled,  like  the  first  faint  coolness  of 
the  dying  season  with  summer's  native  mild- 
ness. "Of  all  persons  you  are  the  last  who 
should  tell  me  that." 

"  Perhaps  I  meant,"  he  said,  "  that  you'd 
outlived  your  emotions." 

"And  why?" 

"  Because  you're  such  a  great  lady,  now. 
Not  that  you  didn'  t  always  promise  to  be — 
whenever  you  should  marry." 

"  That  is  so  queer  to  me,"  she  answered; 
"for  people  to  imagine,  I  mean,  that  one 
has  ossified  merely  because  one  chooses  a 
gregarious  life." 

"  You  call  it  gregarious?" 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  121 

"Why  not?  I  only  go  where  I  choose  to 
go,  but  I  see  lots  of  people.  I  only  wish  they 
all  pleased  me." 

"But  it  isn't  easy  to  please  you." 
"I  thought  once  that  you  found  it  easy." 
He  smiled  the  fleeting,  familiar  smile  that 
long  ago  had  secretly  charmed  her.   ' '  Oh,  but 
I  never  was  quite  sure,  you  know!"  he  said. 
"Quite  sure?" 

"  Whether  I  pleased  you  or  not." 
She  shook  her  head  ever  so  slightly,  and 
in  her  eyes  he  fancied  he  could  see  tiny  rays 
that  told  him  he  was  incorrigible,  he  was 
at  his  ancient  tricks. 

' '  Sometimes, ' '  she  said,  ' '  I  think  you  speak 
as  if  you  wanted  to  ape  the  hollow  fadeurs 
of  men  who  are  greatly  your  inferiors." 
She  lowered  her  tones  a  little,  though  there 
was  no  need  of  this,  for  the  wines  were 
bidding  the  folk  babble  all  about  them, 
and  harps  and  violins  were  making  melo- 
dious a  distant  ambuscade  of  orange-trees. 
"Were  you  not  quite  sure  if  you  pleased  me 
or  no,"  she  continued,  "  on  a  certain  August 
night  at  Sharon?' ' 


122  TABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"I  recollect  how  you  threw  away  a  ring 
that  I  gave  you,"  he  replied.  "It  rolled 
off  along  the  road,  and  although  the  stone 
sparkled  in  the  bright  moonlight,  I  never 
afterward  found  it.  I  think  it  must  have 
fallen  into  that  ditch.  I  wonder  if  it's  there 
yet." 

"If  I  thought  so,"  she  said,  "I believe 
Fd  go  there  and  try  to  lish  it  out.  I  be- 
haved so  badly.  But  you  might  have 
seen — 

"  Seen  what?"  he  murmured,  as  she  paused, 
and  bent  his  head  down  so  that  a  stray  wisp 
of  her  hair  touched  his  temple. 

"My  jealousy,"  she  said.  The  two  words 
were  very  low;  he  could  just  make  them  out 
and  no  more. 

"Oh,  of  that  girl?"  he  returned,  and  felt 
his  heart  beat  oddly,  perhaps  from  pure  sur- 
prise at  the  audacity  which  this  last  little 
undertone  had  sheathed.  "Upon  my  word, 
I  forget  who  she  was." 

"  But  /  haven't  forgotten." 

He  sighed,  and  as  he  did  so  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  sigh  was  a  wholly  sincere  one. 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  123 

"I  should  have  known  this  before,"  he 
murmured.  "That  you  really  cared,  I 
mean." 

"Yes?— Well,  let  us  talk  of  something 
else." 

But  she  immediately  afterward  turned  to 
the  duke,  and  during  the  next  ten  minutes 
or  so  Eninger  found  himself  dealing  in  the 
merest  thistledown  of  thought  and  speech 
with  the  lady  on  his  other  side. 

"The  duke  thinks  our  climate  so  delight- 
ful," his  hostess  presently  said  to  him,  how- 
ever. "Do  you  suppose  that  is  only  polite- 


"Why  shouldn't  it  be  more?  Our  sun- 
shine, you  know,  is  a  revelation  to  the  Eng- 
lish." 

' '  But  our  icy  blasts — what  must  they  be? 
Alas!  I  know  what  they  are  to  myself.  If 
I  stay  here  many  more  winters  I  shall  die  of 
neuralgia." 

"So  you've  that  trouble?" 

"Frightfully,  at  times.  Why  won't  you 
doctors  invent  something  for  us  martyrs?" 

"We're  always  doing  so;    we're  always 


124  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

trying  it.  But  each  martyr  requires  a  special 
course  of  treatment." 

She  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes  again,  and 
on  her  lips  lay  a  smile  of  exquisite  sweetness 
which  seemed  flinging  lovely  challenge  to  all 
that  the  world  had  ever  said  about  her  being 
cold  of  heart. 

"Very  well,  then,"  she  answered,  "won't 
you  give  me  a  special  course  of  treatment?" 

"I  never  mix  business  with  pleasure," 
he  laughed.  "Still,  to  do  you  any  service 
would  be  so  great  a  pleasure  that  I'll  waive 
professional  etiquette  for  this  once." 

"And  come  to  me  on — let  us  say  Wednes- 
day morning  at  twelve?" 

"Yes." 

"Bringing  with  you  lots  of  scientific 
knowledge?" 

"All  that  I  possess." 

"It  will  seem  so  strange  to  have  you 
feeling  my  pulse!" 

"It  may  prove  rather  agitating  to  myself." 

"Physicians  must  be  above  such  follies." 

"  Unfortunately  we  can't  help  being  men." 

That  evening,  as  they  rode  home  together, 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  125 

Eninger  noticed  a  sharp  change  in  the  man- 
ner of  his  wife.  Her  reticence  and  gravity 
were  gone,  and  a  lively  buoyancy  filled 
their  place.  She  had  liked  the  dinner,  but 
still  more  the  guests  gathered  to  partake 
of  it.  The  Colonel  met  them  as  they  arrived 
home,  and  to  her  father  she  was  unwontedly 
garrulous. 

"Never  abuse  American  society  again!" 
she  playfully  commanded. 

"  I  never  have  abused  it,"  said  the  Colonel, 
telling  a  falsehood  for  the  sake  of  making  an 
epigram  "I've  only  said  that  it  didn't 
exist." 

"Ah,"  cried  Alicia,  "if  you'd  seen  those 
charming  drawing-rooms!  And  then  the 
appointments  in  the  dressing-rooms  upstairs. 
They  were "  She  paused,  and  to  her  hus- 
band's ears  the  break-oif  in  her  voice  was  so 
abrupt  a  one  that  he  looked  at  her  with  sur- 
prised inquiry.  She  hurried  along  at  once, 
however,  with  new  sentences  on  subjects  new 
although  similar.  "  The  entertainment  was 
altogether  perfect,  father;  I'm  sure  you'd 
have  said  so.  If  there's  any  duchess  in 


126  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

England  more  distinguee  than  Mrs.  Wes- 
terveldt,  I  should  greatly  like  to  see  her." 

"Oh,  I've  met  dowdy  duchesses  in  my 
time,"  grumbled  the  Colonel.  "They're 
most  of  'em  only  poor  country-folk,  you 
know,  that  don't  come  up  to  London  except 
for  two  or  three  months  a  year.  It  isn'  t  as 
if  they  lived  in  their  brown-stone  fronts  on 
the  Avenoo"  (he  purposely  made  his  pro- 
nunciation barbaric)  "  and  were  great  guns 
in  the  mighty  but  select  multitude  of  the 
Four  Hundred." 

A  little  later,  after  Alicia  had  gone  to  her 
dressing-room,  Eninger  passed  into  it  from 
his  own  apartment.  The  door  was  slightly 
ajar  and  in  spite  of  his  usual  secure  though 
never  obtrusive  punctilio  he  had  so  recently 
seen  his  wife  that  he  now  forgot  to  knock. 
She  was  seated  in  front  of  her  dressing-table 
as  he  entered,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
something  in  her  lap.  The  instant  that  she 
heard  Eninger' s  footstep  she  looked  up  with 
a  startled  air,  and  then  he  had  a  sense  that 
she  was  concealing  something  either  within 
her  pocket  or  the  folds  of  her  dress.  But 


FABIAN    DIMITKY.  127 

her  act  was  one  of  extreme  speed;  all  was 
over,  so  to  speak,  in  a  second. 

He  crossed  the  threshold  with  a  sudden 
conviction  that  she  had  just  fleetly  hidden 
a  letter.  But  whose?  What  secret  could 
she  possibly  have  from  him?  Then,  like  a 
flash,  pride  intervened. 

' '  I  will  ask  her  nothing, ' '  he  thought.  ' '  I 
am  not  even  sure  that  it  was  a  letter.  Still, 
never  mind;  I  will  ask  her  nothing.  A  wife 
who  deals  in  petty  mysteries  is  always  tire, 
some,  but  a  husband  who  plays  the  petty 
spy  upon  them  is  tactless  and  dull." 

Aloud  he  said,  in  the  most  careless  of 
tones:  "  I  merely  came  in  to  tell  you  that  I 
shall  sit  with  a  book  down  in  the  office  for  a 
little  while  yet.  It  still  is  rather  early— 
hardly  more  than  eleven." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  she  answered,  and  he 
could  not  help  marking,  by  the  nearer  view  he 
had  gained  of  her,  that  her  color  had  sensibly 
lessened.  He  paused  for  a  moment  at 
another  door  from  that  by  which  he  had 
entered,  and  glanced  across  his  shoulder  as  if 
he  were  waiting  for  some  fresh  word  from  her. 


128  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

But  she  did  not  speak,  nor  did  she  appear 
to  know  that  he  had  thus  paused.  And 
presently  he  passed  from  the  room,  going 
down  into  his  office  among  the  medical  folios 
and  phials  of  his  profession. 


FABIAN    DIMITEY.  129 


VII. 

The  office  was  pretty  and  comfortable, 
with  a  fire  of  soft  coal  sparkling  in  the  grate. 
Eninger  now  recalled  that  a  few  minutes  ago 
the  servant  had  told  him  of  a  gentleman 
who  had  called  earlier  in  the  evening  but 
who  had  left  no  name,  stating  that  he  might 
perhaps  pay  a  later  visit.  Eninger  wondered 
a  little  who  the  anonymous  person  might  be. 
Patients  were  not  so  frequent  with  him  that 
he  could  hold  their  coming  and  going  in 
light  esteem.  Heaven  knew,  he  had  begun 
to  need  and  long  for  their  aid. 

It  hurt  him  cruelly  to  think  of  leaving  his 
present  home  for  quarters  more  limited  and 
less  prosperous.  The  slight  practice  he  had 
already  gained  would  thus  be  unsettled  and 
perhaps  wholly  destroyed.  Borrowing  he 
had  always  detested,  and  like  most  men  to 
whom  the  arts  and  uses  of  business  are 
unknown,  he  had  only  a  slender  acquaint- 


130  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

anceship  among  those  who  are  of  the  lending 
habit.  Ready  money  was  what  he  wanted 
and  might  go  on  wanting  for  a  year  to  come; 
but  seeking  it  from  the  ordinary  club  associ- 
ate, who  had  seen  him  purely  in  his  social 
relations  toward  life,  was  an  ordeal  from 
which  he  almost  shudderingly  recoiled. 

On  the  other  hand  he  was  quite  without 
friends  of  a  more  intimate  sort.  He  had  had 
but  two  since  reaching  manhood.  One  was 
Fabian  Dimitry  and  one  was  a  cousin,  almost 
exactly  of  his  own  age,  who  had  died  and 
left  him  grief-stricken  for  the  loss  of  a 
mutual  love  that  time  would  eventually  have 
paled  and  withered.  Both  his  parents  had 
survived  only  long  enough  to  be  dubious 
memories  of  childhood,  and  all  the  rest  of 
his  kindred  were  comparatively  remote. 

For  a  little  while  he  allowed  himself  to 
dwell  on  the  chances  of  some  sort  of  assist- 
ance from  Gertrude  Westerveldt.  Yet  no, 
he  at  last  concluded.  But  for  a  certain  gleam 
of  unexpected  tenderness  which  had  broken 
upon  him  from  her  cold  personality  like  the 
polar  light  from  a  northern  firmament,  he 


FABIA1ST    DIMITRY.  131 

might  have  found  himself  capable  of  making 
known  to  her  his  deplored  straits.  Now 
such  an  appeal,  however,  had  become  impos- 
sible. He  could  no  more  think  of  voicing 
it  than  of  doing  any  wildly  impracticable 
thing,  such,  for  example,  as  applying  to 
Fabian  Dimitry  himself. 

He  let  this  last  thought  float  through  his 
mind  on  a  little  breeze,  as  it  were,  of  sarcas- 
tic humor.  There  was  no  one  in  all  the  world 
to  whom  he  would  not  have  been  less  desir- 
ous of  applying  than  the  man  whose  name 
had  just  occurred  to  him.  It  chanced  that 
he  sat  before  'his  desk,  at  this  moment,  with 
head  ruminatively  bowed,  Avhile  one  hand 
drummed  a  little  unconscious  tattoo  on  the 
lustrous  mahogany.  No  doubt  it  suddenly 
struck  him  that  to  brood  like  this  was  futile, 
and  he  rose  with  the  intent  of  bringing  forth 
a  volume  from  among  his  medical  folios. 

Directly  opposite  him,  at  the  threshold  of 
the  near  doorway,  stood  the  figure  of  a  man. 
Eninger  at  once  gave  a  terrible  start,  for  the 
total  unexpectedness  touched  him  with  that 
wild  dismay  wrought  in  us  by  an  accredited 


132  FABIAN    DIMITBY. 

ghost.  But  Fabian,  advancing  a  few  steps, 
quickly  proved  that  he  was  by  no  means 
incorporeal. 

"Your  servant  let  me  enter  like  this,-' 
came  his  quiet  and  well-remembered  voice. 
"I  hope  you  will  not  blame  her  for  not 
announcing  me;  the  fault  was  really  all 
mine." 

Eninger  made  no  answer.  He  was  think- 
ing that  he  must  have  grown  very  pale,  and 
that  Fabian  looked  as  tranquil  as  if  he  had 
just  dropped  in  for  the  most  ordinary  of 
visits. 

"May  I  shut  the  door?"  presently  came 
the  new-comer's  next  words.  He  lifted  his 
arm,  half  turning,  and  with  a  flavor  of  inter- 
rogation in  the  gesture. 

"Yes — if  you  wish,"  replied  Eninger, 
finding  a  voice.  And  then,  after  the  door 
had  been  shut  and  they  two  were  alone 
together,  he  added  in  as  natural  tones  as  he 
could  command: 

"  Pray  be  seated  as  well." 

He  saw  Fabian  sink  easily  into  a  seat  and 
was  about  to  do  so  likewise.  But  he  gave 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  133 

another  glance  at  that  serene  face,  maniy  and 
yet  in  a  way  feminine,  with  its  lines  of  lip 
and  chin  like  the  best  that  we  see  in  sculpture 
and  with  its  fearless,  thoughtful  eyes  aglow 
beneath  a  brow  of  splendid  breadth — another 
glance  at  that  once  dear  and  still  familiar 
face,  which  had  none  of  the  romantic  beauty 
of  a  mere  sentimental  hero,  but  beamed  with 
spiritual  and  intellectual  force  as  clearly  as 
an  alabaster  globe  might  beam  with  the 
lamplight  burning  at  its  heart.  Intuitively 
it  darted  through  Eninger's  mind  why  this 
man  had  come  to  him. 

"Fabian!"  he  exclaimed,  going  several 
steps  closer  to  where  the  new-comer  was 
seated.  Before  he  could  do  more  than  lift 
his  hand,  Fabian  had  both  lifted  and  extended 
his. 

Eninger  seized  it.  Then,  still  holding  it, 
he  slowly  rose,  and  the  two  men  looked  full 
into  one  another's  eyes.  What  Eninger  read, 
or  seemed  to  read,  dizzied  him,  and  soon  he 
had  almost  staggered  backward.  But  in  an 
instant  Fabian  was  again  at  his  side. 

"  You're  not  well,  Ray.    I  can  understand 


134  FABIAN    DIMITKY. 

it.  You  ve  had  a  hard  shock.  I  came  here 
to  tell  you  that  things  need  not  be  so  diffi- 
cult with  you  as  they  perhaps  look.  You 
see,  I  knew  of  your  weighty  investments 
with  that  firm — and  then,  of  course,  there  is 
always  gossip,  in  such  cases,  that  one  can't 
be  deaf  to  even  if  he  would." 

By  this  time  Eninger  had  got  to  be  quite 
calm  again,  though  he  was  still  excessively 
pale. 

"Fabian,"  he  now  said,  and  without  a 
tremor,  "you've  come — I  felt  sure  of  it  a 
minute  ago! — with  some  sort  of  idea  that  you 
can  do  me  service." 

"  Yes,"  was  the  answer.  "  I've  come  hav- 
ing that  hope." 

"  Hope?"  Eninger  echoed,  with  what  might 
be  called  the  irony  of  pure  consternation. 
"You,  of  all  men  living,  were  the  last  from 
whom  I  expected  an  act  like  this!" 

Fabian  gave  a  slow  nod,  as  if  he  had  fore- 
seen some  such  response.  "We  should  not 
lightly  break  old  ties,"  he  said.  "For  my- 
self, I  can  not;  they  are  not  only  too  strong, 
but  too  sacred." 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  135 

"And  yet  you  had  great  reason  to  blame 
me,"  faltered  Eninger. 

' '  Well,  I  have  reason  now  to  pity  you — 
and  to  help  you  (if  I  can),  which  is  surely 
far  better.  I  think  that  the  something  which 
it  lies  in  my  power  to  oifer  you,  Ray,  will 
prove  helpful." 

"Fabian!  Fabian!"  exclaimed  the  other; 
and  he  dropped  into  a  chair,  his  head  bowed 
and  one  hand  slowly  moving  just  above  it, 
for  an  instant,  with  palm  turned  outward. 

"It's  this,  Ray,"  went  on  Fabian.  He 
seated  himself  at  Eninger' s  side  and  spoke 
almost  into  the  ear  of  the  latter,  whose  head 
still  preserved  its  bending  posture.  ' '  You 
remember  my  old  cousin,  Mrs.  Van  Schaick, 
who  lived  down  there  in  Second  Avenue  as 
plainly  as  a  nun,  and  who  had  a  million, 
everybody  thought,  which  she  would  cer- 
tainly leave  to  charity?  Well,  she  died  a 
week  ago,  and  like  so  many  other  people, 
showed  herself  to  have  been  reputed  far 
richer  than  she  was.  Instead  of  a  million, 
she  left  about  a  quarter  of  one,  and  only 
half  of  that  to  charities.  To  me  fell  twenty- 


136  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

thousand  dollars;  it  seemed  to  fall  from  the 
skies.  1'  ve  not  the  remotest  need  of  it.  You 
know  how  small  my  wants  are.  It's  at  your 
command — or  less  than  that  sum,  if  you 
prefer.  Auchester  and  Tyng  will  pay  up  every 
dollar,  they  say,  sooner  or  later.  This  you've 
no  doubt  heard,  but  of  course  the  news  can't 
repair  your  immediate  losses.  A  loan  like 
the  one  I'll  gladly  make  you,  can.  Will  you 
accept  it?  Mind  you,  there's  no  gift  sug- 
gested; you'll  merely  become  my  debtor  for 
a  certain  time." 

Fabian  paused.  The  man  whom  he  ad- 
dressed remained  quite  motionless,  with  his 
head  still  drooped.  Then  Fabian  spoke 
again,  and  this  time  there  had  crept  into  his 
voice  a  new  note,  at  once  winsome  and  virile. 

"I'd  have  written  you,  Ray,  but  I  feared 
you  might  think  that  savored  of  ...  pat- 
ronage— condescension,  even.  I  thought:  it 
would  be  easier  to  speak  than  write.  But  I 
somehow  find  I  was  wrong.  There's  a  sort 
of  fog  of  self-righteousness  about  my  roming 
here  that  I  can't  talk  away.  It — it  gets  into 
my  voice  and  almost  smothers  my  words." 


FABIAN    DIMITKY.  137 

"Oil,  Fabian!"  once  more  cried  Ray,  lift- 
ing- his  head.  The  light  flashed  on  his  tears; 
they  were  few  yet  large,  and  at  this  moment 
he  was  not  ashamed  of  them.  "  That  '  fog  of 
self-righteousness'  is  so  like  you!  Nobody 
but  a  being  of  your  magnificent  honesty 
would  ever  have  dreamed  of  using  it  against 
himself!"  And  with  the  tears  yet  shining  in 
his  eyes,  Eninger  gave  vent  to  a  great  laugh 
and  flung  both  arms  round  the  neck  of  his 
'guest.  He  had  for  years  loved  Fabian  as  a 
friend.  From  that  moment  the  man  became 
as  a  brother  to  him,  and  withal,  as  a  brother 
superior  in  every  mental  grace.  His  affec- 
tion had  always  been  blended  with  esteem; 
it  was  now  in  a  way  delicately  but  clearly 
haloed  by  reverence. 


138  FABIAN    DIMITKY. 


VIII. 

That  night  was  an  almost  sleepless  one  for 
Eninger.  The  stars  had  dropped  golden  into 
his  lap  and  saved  him  from  those  detested 
changes  fate  was  menacing.  He  could  now 
live  on  in  comfort  at  his  little  Forty- Second 
Street  home,  and  use  every  honorable  effort 
to  win  the  wealth  that  comes  with  profes- 
sional fame.  Why  should  he  not  reap  wheat 
at  the  end  in  place  of  tares?  Other  men  with 
arms  no  sturdier  than  his  own  had  not  toiled 
vainly  in  the  same  huge  humanitarian  Held. 
He  would  try;  the  odds  were  not  against 
success.  Meanwhile,  this  priceless  Fabian 
had  come  to  him,  and  the  hateful  debt  which 
he  had  dreaded  to  contract  in  strangers' 
quarters  would  be  a  kind  of  glistening  ele- 
ment in  the  cement  of  their  repaired  friend- 
ship. 

And  Alicia?  In  the  morning,  at  the  break- 
fast-table, when  he  felt  sure  that  they  were 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  139 

quite  alone  together,  he  quietly  told  his  wife 
nearly  everything.  The  Colonel  always 
breakfasted  in  his  own  room,  and  rarely 
appeared  until  after  twelve  o'  clock.  But  it 
was  the  Colonel  who  gave  Eninger  a  chance 
of  plunging  into  his  subject,  since  Alicia's 
father  was  usually  in  the  habit,  nowadays, 
of  dropping  into  the  office  between  eleven  and 
twelve,  if  his  son-in-law  happened  to  be  there, 
and  imbibing  brandy  and  water  under  cir- 
cumstances which  he  would  no  doubt  have 
considered  social.  They  were  not  at  all 
times  social  to  Ray,  who  wanted  his  medical 
books  and  didn't  specially  want  any  brandy. 
But  apropos  of  the  Colonel  not  having  dis- 
turbed him  on  the  previous  evening  (he 
might  have  put  it  in  the  form  of  the  Colonel 
not  having  mildly  shrieked  American  deprav- 
ity to  him  in  the  stead  of  English  impecca- 
bility), the  husband  of  Alicia  found  a  cue  to 
this  effect: 

"No,  your  father  didn't  drop  in  last  night, 
but  someone  else  did — someone  else  whom 
you  know — whom  you  know  very  well,  my 
darling." 


140  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"  Someone  else!"  repeated  Alicia,  looking 
soft  query  with  her  sweet,  ruminative  eyes. 
"And  whom  I  know?  Pray  tell  me!" 

"I  will,"  said  Eninger,  rising.  He  took 
a  chair  at  her  side  and  spoke  for  a  long  time. 
He  had  forgotten  the  little  occurrence  of  her 
quick,  concealing  movement  on  the  previous 
night— or,  at  least,  if  he  had  not  forgotten 
it,  far  weightier  interests  had  driven  it  from 
his  mind,  and  he  was  now  rapt  in  the  note 
and  survey  of  these.  He  spoke  amply,  and 
also  with  detail  and  exactitude. 

At  last,  when  he  had  ended,  Alicia  rose, 
fluttered,  visibly  trembling.  "He  is  to 
come  here  again!"  she  said.  "And — to  see 
me?" 

"  He  has  not  asked  it— he  has  indeed  asked 
we  that  I  should  prevent  such  meeting,"  said 
Eninger,  also  rising.  "But  I  have  begged 
him  to  see  you." 

"To— see  me,  Ray?" 

"  Yes.    Do  you  not  wish  the  meeting?" 

She  clasped  his  hands  in  both  her  own, 
with  her  fair  face  brightening. 

"Oh,  why  not?    I— I  should  love  to  see 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  141 

him  again  after  what  he  has  done  for  you! 
Can't  you  feel  this  no\v,  dear  husband?" 

"Now?"  he  questioned,  with  a  covert  smile, 
"  why  now?" 

She  tossed  her  head  as  if  a  flower  were 
tossing  in  the  sun,  and  he  watched  the  tender 
assieging  color  as  it  filmed  yet  did  not  dye 
her  virginal  face. 

"  Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "after  all  I've  told 
you!  You  remember?  The  sentiment  I  had 
for  him — it's  gone — quite  gone." 

He  put  his  arms  about  her  and  kissed  her, 
while  he  said:  "Am  I  not  certain  of  it, 
dearest?  You  shall  see  him  soon.  No  matter 
about  his  sentiment.  I  dare  say  it  may  not 
be  gone.  But  I  trust  him  so  utterly.  How 
can  I  help  trusting  a  man  like  that?" 


Within  the  next  fortnight  an  event  occurred 
in  Eninger  s  household  which  he  would  have 
been  amazed  to  learn  of  if  any  fairy  had 
prophesied  it.  Fabian  Dimitry  went  to  live  at 
the  home  of  his  old  friend. 

"  Good  heavens,  man,  how  did  it  happen?" 


142  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

asked  Mrs.  Atterbury  of  Fabian,  in  a  frenzy 
of  amazement. 

"I  scarcely  know,  myself,"  lie  answered. 
"It  seems  now  as  if  I  must  have  dreamed  it." 

'•''Her  idea,  no  doubt,"  said  the  little  lady 
dryly. 

"She  was  very  good  to  think  of  it.  I 
refused  again  and  again,  but — 

"  She  persuaded  you  over,  at  last.  I  see. 
But  my  dear  fellow,  the  whole  thing  is  pre- 
posterous. If  you  put  it  in  one  of  your 
plays  people  would  laugh  at  you.  And  pray, 
are  you  getting  along  comfortably  in  Forty- 
Second  Street?" 

He  smiled  at  the  quaint  sarcasm  in  her 
voice  and  look.  "Very,"  he  returned. 
"And  why  not?  With  her  the  old  romance 
is  completely  dead  and  the  new  romance  has 
begun." 

"  Hm— are  you  quite  sure  of  that?" 

"  I  am  absolutely  certain." 

"That  sounds  convincing.  And  about 
yourself.  In  what  stage  of  development  or 
decay  is  your  romance?" 

Fabian  closed  his  eyes  for  an  instant,  like 


i 
FABIAN    DIMITBY.  143 

one  who  muses.  "  I  try  to  forget  that  I  was 
ever  engaged  to  Alicia  Eninger." 

"Ah,"  laughed  Mrs.  Atterbury,  softly  but 
a  little  cruelly,  "  you  try  to  forget?  And  do 
you  succeed?" 

"  I  hope  so.  It  often  seems  to  me  that  I 
do.  They  are  very  happy  together,  and  I 
watch  their  happiness.  I  have  not  a  near 
relation  in  the  world;  for  years  Ray  Eninger 
was  closer  to  me  than  any  kinsman  left  alive. 
It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  see  his  face  and  hear 
his  voice  again.  We  have  long  and  enjoya- 
ble talks.  Alicia  will  sometimes  merely 
listen,  and  sometimes  she  will  break  into  the 
converse  in  either  a  playful  or  serious  vein. 
I  think  the  old  Colonel  is  our  one  discordant 
spirit." 

"A  horrid  old  creature,"  said  Mrs.  Atter- 
bury; "he  looks  like  a  death's-head,  and  has 
glassy  eyes,  and  a  voice  like  the  ghost's  in 
Hamlet.  I've  caught  a  glimpse  of  him. 
But  he's  evidently  a  man  of  the  world.  He 
sees  how  monstrous  is  the  present  situation. 
Or  am  I  wrong  in  so  stating?1 ' 

"  'Monstrous'  has  indeed  a  violent  sound," 


144  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

said  Fabian,  with  that  steady  eye  and  calm 
voice  by  which  great  and  pure  natures  are 
enabled  to  visit  rebuke  upon  triflers  too 
rashly  seeking  it.  "I  don't  know  if  you  are 
wrong,  however,  as  to  the  Colonel's  motive 
for  ill-humor.  But  then  this  country  has 
made  him  acrid  from  the  first.  Nothing 
could  happen  here  that  would  wholly  please 
him." 

It  was  on  the  verge  of  Mrs.  Atterbury's 
lips  to  exclaim,  "Hardly  anything  could 
happen  here  that  ouglit  more  to  ^'splease 
him;"  but  Fabian,  by  the  very  dignity  of  his 
gentleness,  often  blunted  even  her  audacities. 
And  besides,  as  she  would  sometimes  almost 
passionately  tell  herself,  she  was  very  dearly 
fond  of  him,  and  next  to  "Lewsy"  there 
was  no  man  for  whom  she  had  ever  got  so  to 
care.  Considering  that  there  were  a  great 
many  men  and  women  in  the  world  for  whom 
her  large,  warm,  hospitable  nature  cared 
extremely,  this  attitude  flavored  of  rather 
pungent  compliment. 

She  was  not  always  confidential  with  her 
husband.  Now  and  then  it  was  doubted 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  145 

among  her  friends  as  to  whether  she  placed 
"Lewsy"  quite  so  high  in  her  affections  as 
she  professed.  The  gentleman  was  a  woe 
and  an  alarm  to  some  people;  to  many 
others  he  was  a  fellow  of  great  companiona- 
bility  and  charm.  Mrs.  Atterbury  chose 
now  to  tell  him  of  Fabian's  recent  action, 
with  a  few  graphic  words  that  put  the  whole 
case  in  lucid  colors.  Lewson  Atterbury 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  roared 
with  mirth  when  the  full  idea  had  become 
clear  to  him.  He  was  as  plump  as  his  wife, 
with  a  blond  mustache  too  large  for  his  head, 
and  with  a  head  too  small  for  his  corpulent 
and  rather  comic  body. 

"That's  you— that's  just  you,  to  dare  go 
for  him,  Ad,  because  he'  d  got  himself  into 
such  a  mess.  Nobody  but  you  would  have 
had  the  cheek  to  tackle  a  man  when  he'd 
behaved  like  such  a  simpleton." 

Mrs.  Atterbury  tossed  her  head  impa- 
tiently. "I  didn't  tackle  him,  Lewsy,  as 
you  term  it,  and  I  didn't  say  anything  about 
his  being  a  simpleton." 

Her  husband  thrust  both  hands  into  his 


146  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

pockets  and  lowered  his  head,  slowly  shak- 
ing it  sideways.  He  never  replied  to  his 
wife  when  she  openly  snubbed  him.  He 
had  always  thought  Fabian  Diraitry  a 
"crank;"  he  thought  everybody  a  "crank" 
who  was  not  entirely  commonplace,  like 
himself.  And  yet,  in  certain  ways,  he  was 
not  at  all  commonplace.  He  stood  forth 
strikingly  in  one  respect,  at  least:  all  his 
geese  were  swans,  and  all  his  personal  sur- 
roundings perfection. 

"Cook?"  he  would  say,  if  the  question  of 
home  cookery  was  proposed.  ' '  I  don' t  be- 
lieve there's  a  woman  in  New  York  that  can 
beat  ours."  And  then  he  would  nnn;ii«' 
wondrous  exploits  on  the  part  of  this  culi- 
nary Catharine  the  Great.  With  his  butler, 
his  office-clerks,  even  his  porters,  it  was  the 
same.  Until  discharged  they  were  all  non- 
pareils of  worth  and  wit.  Somebody  had 
said,  not  long  ago,  that  there  was  mercy  for 
his  friends  in  the  fact  of  his  being  childless, 
as  the  virtue  and  intellect  of  any  child  bom 
from  him  would  have  been  trumpeted  with 
agonizing  zeal.  But  as  it  was,  Mrs.  Atter- 


FABIAN    DIMITKY.  147 

bury  filled  the  place  of  that  unbegotten  off- 
spring. There  were  men  who  had  their  rea- 
sons not  to  treat  Lewsy  uncivilly,  yet  who 
turned  chilly  and  felt  an  inward  trembling 
when  he  began  with  ' '  My  wif e. ' '  His  fund  of 
anecdotes  concerning  her  was  fathomless. 
From  her  powers  of  repartee  to  her  benign 
charities,  he  had  stories  to  tell  of  all  the 
shining  attributes  that  made  her  unique. 

"It  is  so  charming  to  hear  him  sound 
her  praises,"  this  or  that  wife  would 
say,  always  taking  care  to  say  it  with  a 
touch  of  plaintiveness  if  her  husband  chanced 
to  be  within  ear-shot. 

But  Mrs.  Westerveldt,  who  hated  her 
cousin  Atterbury  as  we  know,  and  who 
thought  Lewsy  but  a  degree  or  so  above  one 
of  her  footmen,  smiled  skepticism  at  these 
eulogies.  "  He  merely  says  nice  things  of 
his  wife,"  she  asserted,  "because  Adela  is 
married  to  him.  That's  the  only  reason.  If 
Adela  died  and  he  were  to  many  another 
woman,  then  she  would  begin  beaming  with 
excellences,  just  the  same." 

Fabian  had   been  quite  right  in  calling 


148  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

Colonel  Delamere  the  discordant  spirit  of 
Eninger's  new  household.  The  Colonel 
might  have  shaken  hands  with  Mrs.  Atter- 
bury  and  her  Lewsy  on  the  entire  abomina- 
tion of  Fabian  being  permitted  to  enter  his 
son-in-law's  home.  He  was  ignorant  of  the 
help  which  Eninger's  old  friend  had  brought, 
or  perhaps  his  disgust  might  not  have  been 
so  acute.  But  as  it  was,  "Why,  bless  my 
soul,"  he  said  to  Alicia,  "are  there  any  such 
things  in  this  horrid  country  as  propriety  and 
deportment?  Is  the  marriage  tie  respected  at 
all?  I've  heard  that  divorces  grow  on  trees 
here.  Do  you  suppose,  you  foolish  girl, 
that  you're  not  sticking  your  head  right  into 
the  lion's  jaws?  Besides,  what  did  this  fel- 
low do?  Didn't  he  jilt  you  like  a  scamp? 
Good  God — are  these  American  morals?  It 
will  never  do;  nothing  but  deviltry  can  come 
of  it  ...  American  deviltry,"  finished  the 
Colonel,  "which  has  got  a  particular  flavor 
and  odor  of  its  own." 

To  which  highly  sane  and  sage  remarks 
Alicia  answered  by  putting  her  hand  on  her 
fathers  arm  and  saying  to  him,  with  a  good 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  149 

deal  more  decision  than  most  English  daugh- 
ters employ  toward  their  parents,  or  than 
she  herself  had  been  wont  to  employ  toward 
hers  in  former  times: 

"  Father,  you  hurt  and  grieve  me  by  words 
like  these.  I  love  my  husband  very  loyally 
and  dearly;  I  don't  think  there  can  be  much 
danger  of  the  sort  you  mean  to  a  woman 
who  feels  like  that.  Then,  as  for  Fabian 
Dinritry,  I've  nothing  to  forgive.  He  never 
jilted  me;  there's  a  complete  understanding 
between  us — 

"  Oh,  there  is?"  shot  in  the  Colonel,  with 
a  vicious  flash  in  the  roll  of  his  worldly  old 
eyeballs. 

"Yes,  father,  and  we  want  to  be  very 
happy  here.  I  hope  you  will  aid  and  not  try 
to  thwart  us  in  our  wish.  There — there  are 
times  when  /  am  not  happy,"  pursued  Alicia, 
with  altered  voice  and  a  sudden  trembling 
of  the  lips.  "I  can't  just  explain.  I  sup- 
pose it's  a  nervous  illness  of  some  kind.  I 
often  feel  as  if — but  no  matter.  Only,  I 
beg  you  will  not  stand  in  the  way  of  our 
having  a  tranquil  home.  Peace,  quiet, 


150  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

nothing  to  jar  and  fret  one!  Oh,  that  is  so 
sweet!  And  perhaps  it  will  make  me  better 
— give  me  a  release  from  certain  foolish  fan- 
cies and  broodings  that  I  want  so  much  to  be 
rid  of!" 

Her  last  words  were  almost  a  sob.  The 
Colonel  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  as 
he  perceived  how  swiftly  her  manner  had 
changed  from  composure  to  disarray,  it  is 
possible  that  unwelcome  reminders  and 
impressions  may  secretly  have  startled  him. 

"It's  this  infernal  climate  that's  making 
you  nervous,"  he  presently  grumbled.  ' 'You 
were  never  a  bit  so  at  home.  Everybody  is 
bristling  with  nerves  over  here,  though.  I 
wish  Ray  would  take  the  wreck  of  what 
those  banker-thieves  have  left  him  and  sail 
back  to  the  dear  old  country.  We  could 
live  in  good  style  then  on  half  what  it  costs 
us  to  live  now."  And  as  the  Colonel  spoke 
that  last  sentence  he  leaned  airily  backward, 
lifting  his  eyeglasses  and  giving  his  bony 
shoulders  a  faint,  patrician  shrug.  You 
would  have  said  that  he  had  just  been 
referring  to  moneys  of  his  own  which  a 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  151 

foolish  son-in-law  had  chosen  quite  rashly 
to  expend. 

Notwithstanding  his  hostile  pose,  how- 
ever, the  domestic  peace  which  Alicia  had 
mentioned  as  so  desirable  appeared  now  to 
reign  undisturbed.  Just  before  coming  to 
dwell  under  Eninger's  roof,  Fabian  had  dis- 
cerned a  glimmering  chance  as  regarded  the 
production  of  a  play  at  a  prominent  New 
York  theatre.  D  uring  several  evenings,  when 
no  engagement  claimed  Alicia  and  her  hus- 
band, he  read  them  this  play,  and  read  it 
with  striking  force  and  point.  They  were 
both  fascinated  by  its  fine  literary  style  and 
its  rare  dramatic  value.  It  had  not  a  line 
that  verged  either  upon  melodrama  or  farce. 
It  was  piercingly  true  to  nature,  and  though 
at  times  full  of  that  gloom  which  clothes 
pregnant  human  problems,  intervals  of  glow- 
ing comedy  here  and  there  brightened  it,  like 
patches  of  sun  on  a  shadowed  lawn. 

"The  play,"  said  Eninger,  after  fully 
hearing  it,  "  is  a  work  of  excessive  power.  I 
know  of  nothing  modern  and  in  English  that 
may  compare  with  it.  But  would  it  lure  our 


152  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

usual  theatre-goers?  Indeed,  might  not  its 
firm  and  harmonious  art  possibly  repel 
them?" 

"Ah,  no,  no!"  exclaimed  Alicia,  whom 
the  work  had  fascinated.  "A  play  like  that 
would  create  its  own  audiences." 

"You  may  be  right,"  said  her  husband. 
He  turned  to  Fabian.  "  And  there  is  really 
a  hope  that  the  Academic  Theatre  will  bring 
it  out?" 

"The  manager  wishes  to  talk  with  me 
to-morrow,"  replied  Fabian.  "  I  am  assured 
by  an  agent  of  his  that  he  greatly  admires 
my  drama,  But  it  is  by  no  means  formally 
accepted." 

The  Academic  had  been  for  some  years 
past  a  highly  successful  theatre.  It  seldom 
produced  native  plays,  however,  which  is 
but  another  way  for  stating  that  it  was  a 
New  York  theatre  of  prominence.  What  it 
did  produce  was  staged  with  great  skill  and 
taste,  besides  being  performed  by  a  company 
of  talented  and  supple  artists.  The  mana- 
ger, Mr.  Lascelles,  was  a  man  of  noted  sagac- 
ity in  business,  with  a  little  nimble  frame 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  153 

and  eyes  like  small  black  brilliants.  But  it 
had  been  said  of  him  that  he  knew  really 
nothing  about  the  artistic  or  practical  value 
of  a  play,  and  that  without  his  counsellor, 
Mr.  Belsize,  he  would  never  have  raised  the 
Academic  to  its  present  renown. 

Mr.  Belsize  must  have  heard  these  tales, 
but  he  chose  discreetly  to  ignore  them.  He 
was  a  man  much  larger  of  build  than  his 
employer,  and  one  who  could  not  appear 
uncovered  without  an  aspect  of  almost  spec- 
tacular picturesqueness.  His  eyes  were  dark 
and  radiant,  but  were  made  more  so  by  a 
curly  crop  of  snow-white  hair.  Prematurely 
blanched,  these  locks  crowned  his  somewhat 
ruddy  complexion  with  an  effect  that  brought 
to  mind  pictures  of  old  French  courtiers. 
But  such  illusion,  if  perpetually  being  cre- 
ated, was  perpetually  being  destroyed  as 
well;  for  an  immense  ink-black  moustache 
curved  along  either  of  his  cheeks  and 
wrought  sensational  contrast  with  the  hair 
above  it.  Mr.  Belsize' s  nationality  had 
somehow  never  transpired.  When  asked  it, 
he  was  inclined  to  give  evasive  responses, 


154  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

and  his  repute  for  all  sorts  of  diplomatic 
speech  had  long  been  securely  founded.  He 
spoke  French  glibly,  but  not  well  enough  to 
have  been  born  a  Frenchman,  and  his  Eng- 
lish had  a  frequent  cockney  ring;  but  over 
every  tone  and  phrase  that  he  used  there 
hovered  (at  least  to  Fabian's  thinking)  the 
light  spell  of  an  etherealized  "brogue."  If 
it  were  true  that  he  was  au  fond  an  Irish- 
man, then  not  a  little  of  his  adroit  and  facile 
cleverness  could  be  thus  explained.  Certain 
critics  affirmed  that  he  had  mutilated  Dumas 
and  massacred  even  poor  flamboyant  Sardou 
in  his  adaptations  of  these  authors  for  the 
Academic.  But  on  the  other  hand  he  was 
not  without  adherents  who  praised  his  quick . 
perception  of  just  what  the  New  York  public 
needed  and  his  complete  efficiency  in  the 
service  of  Mr.  Lascelles. 

It  was  the  latter  gentleman  who  first 
received  Fabian  at  the  theatre  on  the  morn- 
ing of  his  visit  there.  The  desk  at  which 
Mr.  Lascelles  sat  was  rather  plenteously 
littered  with  play-bills  and  rolls  of  paper 
which  might  have  been  rejected  plays;  but 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  155 

for  the  most  part  there  was  hardly  any  real 
difference  between  this  private  managerial 
office  and  a  like  sanctum  of  merchant  or 
broker.  The  wiry  little  man  with  the  acute 
eyes  offered  a  chair  to  Fabian,  took  a  chair 
himself,  and  then  looked  studiously  at  one 
of  his  own  boot-toes  while  he  said: 

' '  I  liked  your  play  very  much,  Mr.  Dim- 
itry.  You  must  excuse  my  keeping  it  so 
long,  but  that  can't  be  avoided  at  the  Aca- 
demic. We  receive  so  many  plays — so  many 
hundreds,  I  might  say  thousands — every 
year." 

•'  Really  as  many  as  that?"  said  Fabian,  in 
his  frank,  serious  way.  "  You  must  then 
employ  quite  a  corps  of  readers." 

This  would  not  have  been  called  by  the 
foes  of  Mr.  Lascelles  at  all  a  happy  remark. 
He  had  too  often  been  accused  of  keeping 
native,  unperformed  plays  a  twelvemonth 
and  then  returning  them  with  the  admission 
that  pressure  of  business  had  made  their 
perusal  "as  yet"  impossible. 

"A  large  corps  of  readers?"  he  replied,  with 
a  flurry  in  his  mien  that  he  quickly  con- 


156  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

trolled.  ' '  Oh,  that' s  not  necessary.  You  see, 
so  many  of  them  are  hopelessly  bad.  Most 
of  them  need  but  to  be  glanced  at  on  account 
of  this  extreme  badness." 

Fabian  nodded,  but  inwardly  doubted.  He 
could  not  bring  himself  to  believe  that  out  of 
multitudinous  manuscripts  yearly  received 
from  a  body  of  people  as  intelligent  in  count- 
less respects  as  were  his  fellow-countrymen, 
most  of  the  offerings  had  so  slight  merit  that 
merely  a  critical  glance  could  decide  their 
claims.  He  said  nothing,  however,  and  Mr. 
Lascelles  quite  soon  continued,  with  a  caress- 
ing slide  of  one  slender  hand  over  one  slim 
knee: 

"Besides,  you  know,  Mr.  Belsize  is  .the 
judge  in  whom  I  place  most  trust.  Your 
play  happened  to  drift  under  his  observation. 
He  likes  it."  Here  for  the  first  time  Mr. 
Lascelles  looked  Fabian  straight  in  the  eyes. 
"He  likes  it  very  much  indeed." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that,"  said  Fabian,  with 
heartiness  but  not  a  trace  of  exultation. 
Indeed,  he  was  to  this  manager,  as  he  would 
have  been  to  most  others  in  the  same  town, 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  157 

a  novel  sort  of  dramatist.  He  was  not  in  any 
process  of  half-genteel  starvation,  and  a 
serene  loyalty  to  art,  rather  than  any  fever- 
ish worriment  about  future  bread,  formed  the 
motive  of  his  present  dealings. 

Doubtless  Mr.  Lascelles  had  already 
grasped  and  weighed  this  fact.  ' '  Mr.  Bel- 
size  thinks,  however,"  he  proceeded,  "that 
your  play,  fine  as  it  is,  requires  certain  alter- 
ations before  it  can  be  accepted  by  the 
Academic." 

Fabian  appeared  to  meditate  for  a  mo- 
ment. He  had  been  a  very  close  student  all 
his  life  of  the  best  dramatic  standards  in  the 
best  of  modern  dramatic  schools.  Many  of 
the  great  French  masterpieces  of  this  century 
he  had  seen  played  in  Paris  again  and  again. 
Every  line  of  the  work  under  discussion  he 
had  brooded  over  with  the  love  a  sculptor 
feels  for  the  marble  he  reverently  chisels. 
Each  character  he  had  thought  out  with  care 
and  colored  with  a  logic  and  probability  bor- 
rowed from  nature  itself.  The  word  ' '  alter- 
ations" jarred  upon  him  with  a  cruel  cru- 
dity. He  had  never  known  a  throb  of  vanity 


158  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

in  his  life,  but  he  now  questioned  of  him- 
self :  "  What  can  be  altered  in  any  part  of 
my  play  without  hurting  the  whole?  Is  it 
possible  that  after  my  months  of  steadfast 
heed  some  new  eye  may  sweep  itself  over  the 
task  and  find  flaws  there  which  I  failed  to 
note?" 

Aloud  he  said  to  Mr.  Lascelles  :  "I  don't 
think  I  quite  understand  you.  Will  you 
kindly  explain  these  proposed  alterations?" 

' '  I  dare  say  Mr.  Belsize  can  do  so  better 
than  I,"  returned  Mr.  Lascelles,  as  if  there 
were  some  doubt  on  this  latter  subject. 
There  was  indeed  no  doubt  whatever,  since 
the  manager  had  but  power  to  look  at  a  play 
through  one  purely  commercial  lens.  For 
him  what  was  good  or  great  was  what  the 
public  paid  down  its  money  at  the  Academic 
box-office  liberally  to  see.  And  in  touching 
an  electric  bell  and  summoning  his  able  famil- 
iar, Mr.  Belsize,  he  gave  signs  of  at  least  a 
temporary-  retirement  in  that  gentleman's 
favor. 

Mr.  Belsize  soon  appeared  and  shook 
hands  with  Fabian,  whom  he  had  met  rather 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  159 

briefly  a  few  days  before.  Mr.  Lascelles 
now  quitted  his  chair  with  an  agile  little 
spring,  and  told  Fabian  that  he  would  leave 
him  with  the  new-comer.  "I'm  sure,"  he 
added,  ' '  that  you  and  he  will  reach  a  prompt 
understanding."  And  then  Mr.  Lascelles 
vanished  through  a  side  door,  no  doubt  being 
very  far  from  yet  even  dreaming  that  an 
American  playwright  would  not  leap  at  the 
chance  of  having  his  work  produced  in  almost 
any  shape  whatever,  provided  it  actually  got 
itself  before  the  footlights. 

Mr.  Belsize  had  a  more  romantic  and 
theatric  look  than  when  Fabian  had  last  seen 
him,  for  the  contrast  between  his  colorless 
hair  and  raven  moustache  was  accentuated 
by  a  fly-away  bow  of  scarlet  silk  at  his 
throat.  "I  am  charmed  with  your  play!" 
he  exclaimed,  and  passed  one  hand  through 
his  white  curls.  "  It  shouldn't  be  touched; 
it  should  go  on  precisely  as  you  have  written 
it.  You'  ve  composed  a  masterpiece,  a  classic. 
Surely,  my  dear  sir,  you're  a  student — I 
don't  say  an  imitator,  but  a  student,  mind 
—of  Emile  Augier  in  France." 


160  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"  I've  tried  to  study  all  that  is  best  in  the 
French  dramatic  writing  of  the  time,"  replied 
Fabian.  "I  suppose  Augier  is  not  to  be 
escapec\  when  one  does  that." 

Mr.  Belsize  threw  up  both  hands  as  if  in 
lamentation.  "Escaped!  Ah,  you  should 
see  how  they  escape  him  here.  I  don't 
believe  you've  an  idea  of  how  he  shoots  over 
people's  heads.  Dumas  is  very  much  the 
same.  Sardou,  no.  But  why?  Because  he's 
very  often  full  of  clap-trap;  he  uses  red-fire 
where  a  true  artist  would  use  sunlight,  star- 
light, moonlight.  Now  I  want  you  to  let 
me  put  a  little  red-fire  into  your  play.  I  see 
precisely  the  places  where  it  can  be  intro- 
duced." And  then  Mr.  Belsize  went  into 
details. 

Fabian  listened  with  an  occasional  mild 
shiver.  The  speaker  was  very  glib,  and  at 
times  almost  eloquent.  He  soon  revealed 
that  this  "  red-fire,"  which  he  had  talked  of 
with  such  careless  contempt,  was  dearer  to 
him  (art  or  no  art)  than  the  light  of  sun, 
moon  or  star.  In  his  proposals  that  this  or 
that  scene  should  be  ruthlessly  vulgarized, 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  161 

he  betrayed,  by  the  very  earnestness  with 
which  his  suggested  changes  were  expressed, 
a  warm  if  secret  sympathy  with  the  changes 
themselves.  Fabian,  with  his  native  flair 
for  honesty,  soon  perceived  this.  He  soon 
felt  that  the  whole  man  somehow  rang 
wrong.  Perhaps  he  had  once  really  had  an 
artistic  sense,  which  the  sad  state  of  the 
modern  theatre  and  the  incessant  require- 
ments of  popular  attractions  had  now  par- 
tially smothered.  But  no  man,  his  listener 
felt  convinced,  could  coldly  announce  him- 
self capable  of  such  assassinating  and  devas- 
tating work  as  this,  unless  his  ideal  had 
either  been  sham  from  the  first  or  had  been 
tumbled  into  the  mud  by  an  acquired  van- 
dalism. 

"There,"  at  last  affirmed  Mr.  Belsize, 
"that  about  hits  off,  in  general  outline, 
what  the  Academic  would  like  to  make  of 
your  play.  After  all,  the  idee  mere  of  the 
thing  would  remain  thoroughly  yours. 
What  we  want  to  do  is  to  ice  the  plum-cake 
— to  draw  the  big  crowds.  We've  got  to  do 
that.  Merely  dramatic  effects  don't  take 


162  FABIAN    DIMITEY. 

the  dollars  out  of  their  pockets.  The  fine 
scenes  in  the  'Fils  de  Qiboyer''  or  the 
'Gendre  de  Monsieur  Poirier'  go  for  noth- 
ing here  .  .  .  Now  see,"  and  Mr.  Belsize 
leaned  forward,  with  his  voice  growing  con- 
fidentially guttural ;  "  I'  ve  got  a  perfect  idea 
of  just  what  can  be  done  with  your  play. 
I'll  make  it  a  go— a  big  go.  You  couldn't, 
for  you're  not  up  in  the  show-business. 
And  here  it's  either  the  show-business  or  it's 
flat  failure.  People  in  this  country  hate  lit- 
erature on  the  stage  as  they  hate  a  cat  walk- 
ing across  it.  They  laugh  at  the  cat,  it's 
true;  but  they  laugh  at  literature  as  well, 
only  with  less  charity.  They're  tired  with 
the  tremendous  push  and  hurry  of  their 
daily  life.  They  want  to  be  waked  up — to 
be  nipped."  And  with  a  large,  white,  well- 
tended,  muscular  hand  he  gently  seized  a 
segment  of  Fabian's  trousers  between  thumb 
and  forefinger,  just  at  the  region  of  the 
knee. 

Fabian  broke  into  a  laugh.  "  I  certainly 
should  not  care  to  do  the  nipping  you 
speak  of,  Mr.  Belsize,"  he  said.  And  then 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  163 

a  certain  artist-born  thought— a  thought  con- 
nected with  the  desire  to  observe  human 
nature  wherever  and  whenever  found — made 
him  add,  in  his  usual  graceful,  reflective  way: 
"But  if  you  should  undertake  in  my  manu- 
script the  collaborative  role  you  have  indi- 
cated, would  not  you  wish  (I  do  not  refer  at 
all  to  my  own  feelings,  pray  observe)  that 
your  name  should  appear  as  joint  author 
with  myself?" 

Mr.  Belsize  sank  backward  and  raised  both 
hands,  agitating  them  with  an  air  of  extreme 
deprecation.  "  Oh,  my  dear  Mr.  Dimitry," 
he  exclaimed,  "  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  have 
you  dream  of  so  foolish  a  thing.  I?"  and  he 
tapped  his  broad  chest  until  the  volatile- 
looking  scarlet  neck-tie  vibrated.  "I  am 
simply  a  mere  play-patcher — nothing  else. 
I  know  what  bells  and  gew-gaws  are  liked 
by  that  big  baby  called  the  public.  A  col- 
labor  ateur  with  you — absurd!  My  offices 
would  in  no  sense  make  me  worthy  of  it." 
Here  he  gave  a  sudden  start,  and  touched  his 
forehead  as  though  a  new  idea  had  just 
broken  upon  him.  "But  in  a  pecuniary 


164  FABIAN    DIMITKY. 

sense— ah,  that  is  different.  I  should  ask 
(and  I  am  sure  you  would  be  generous 
enough  to  give)  a — er — consideration  out 
of  the  royalties  paid  over  to  you  by  Mr.  Las- 
celles  ...  let  us  say  one  thousand  dollars. 
From  your  royalties  you  would  each  day  de- 
duct ten  dollars,  let  us  also  say,  until  the 
sum  just  named  was  reached."  At  this 
point  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  rolled 
his  eyes  toward  the  ceiling.  The  effect  was 
operatic,  and  he  looked  for  an  instant  as  if 
he  might  be  some  Italian  tenor  in  the  melo- 
dious throes  of  ' 'Spirito gentile. "  "I  would 
willingly  do  my  share  of  the  work,"  he  con- 
tinued, "for  no  return  whatever.  But  one 
must  dine.  Mr.  Lascelles  gives  me  my 
salary,  of  course,  but  you  know  the  enor- 
mous expenses  of  New  York  life." 

"They  are  certainly  great,"  said  Fabian, 
who  was  amused.  He  had  yet  to  learn  how 
the  stage  in  this  country  is  infested  with 
corm orants  like  Belsize;  how  almost  every 
successful  foreign  play  produced  here  is  bat- 
tled over  by  rival  claimants,  each  pricked 
with  the  spur  of  greed,  and  how  the  work  of 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  165 

an  American  author,  if  once,  in  the  idiom  of 
the  day,  it  "catches  on,"  is  nearly  certain  of 
being  denounced  as  a  plagiarism  and  even 
contested  in  the  courts  by  some  pickpocket 
idler. 

"I  am  afraid,  however,"  Fabian  con- 
tinued, "that  the  mere  production  of  my 
play,  with  certain  scenes  and  pages  of  dia- 
logue preserved  while  others  were  either 
reconstructed  or  quite  left  out,  would  not  in 
any  real  degree  satisfy  me.  I  should  prefer, 
indeed,  to  have  the  whole  four  acts  of  it  fail 
as  I  wrote  them  than  succeed  as  you  or  any- 
one else  might  cleverly  regarnish  them. 
And  perhaps  your  mutilations  might  be  tact 
or  acumen  itself.  Still,  they  would  not  be 
my  creations,  the  fruit  of  my  reveries  re- 
garding certain  theories,  problems,  doubts, 
beliefs." 

"I  see,"  said  Mr.  Belsize,  with  a  crest- 
fallen manner.  "But  we  can't  bring  the 
play  out  as  it  is;  we  don't  dare.  And  you, 
Mr.  Dimitry — excuse  my  telling  you  so,  but 
you're  beating  the  sea  with  sticks.  It's  no 
use  treating  American  theatre-goers  as  if  they 


166  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

were  very  far  above  fools.  They  never  have 
been,  they  probably  never  will  be,  .and  the 
times  when  I  feel  that  truth  most  keenly  are 
when  I've  just  made  a  real  hit  with  some 
fixed-up  foreign  play  at  the  Academic.  With 
all  your  skill  in  epigram,  your  lightness  of 
literary  touch  and  your  knack  at  rounding 
off  and  emphasizing  character,  you  should 
write  a  novel,  for  if  you  did  so  it  would  give 
you  a  blaze  of  renown." 

"Is  a  blaze  of  renown  so  desirable?"  said 
Fabian,  and  he  laughed,  and  while  he 
laughed  Mr.  Belsize  recoiled  politely,  staring 
at  him  a  little,  as  though  he  were  an  animal 
product  not  promptly  to  be  classified.  "I 
don't  want  renown  at  all,"  proceeded  Fabian, 
most  amiably  and  with  utter  candor.  "I'd 
like  my  play  to  have  it,  though,  if  the  world 
were  willing." 

"But  you  don't  realize  what  the  world 
is,"  cried  his  companion,  with  a  touch  of 
quaint  entreaty.  "The  world,  as  regards 
the  American  theatre,  is  an  ass.  It  can  never 
grasp  you;  it  can  never  feel  you;  you  might 
go  on  writing  those  beautiful  plays  for  it 


FABIAX    DIMITRY.  167 

through  an  eternity  and  it  would  pay  you 
back  nothing  but  unconcern.  Good  heavens! 
how  does  the  New  York  populace  go  to  the 
theatre?  For  the  purpose  of  being  charmed 
as  if  by  a  charming  book?  No.  They  hurry 
there  excited,  nervous,  to  be  more  excited 
and  to  be  made  more  nervous.  If  it's  drama 
of  even  the  good  sort  they  want  to  quit  the 
theatre  thrilled  and  harrowed.  If  it's  comedy 
of  even  the  good  sort  they  want  to  quit  the 
theatre  tickled  into  a  semi -hysteria.  A  fig,  to 
them,  for  your  nuances  and  your  delicat- 
esses!  They  crop  them  up  as  a  cow  does  a 
daisy." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  replied  Fabian,  who  was 
now  a  little  weary.  "You  speak  of  my 
writing  novels.  I've  no  cult  for  that  kind 
of  attempt.  Besides,  it  seems  to  me  that 
novels  are  flooding  us.  Everybody  is  making 
them,  and  the  wonder  is  that  so  many  make 
them  as  well  as  they  do.  If  our  age  isn't 
ready  for  this  kind  of  effort  I  present,  all  the 
worse  that  I  should  have  tried  to  tax  its 
unripe  developments.  .  .  I  don't  see,  Mr. 
Belsize,  that  there's  anything  more  to  be  said. 


168  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

I'm  not  obstinate;  I'm  only  convinced. 
Kindly  return  me  my  manuscript,  and  I  will 
promise  you  and  Mr.  Lascelles  to  trouble 
you  both  with  no  further  scrolls  of  the  same 
impossible  outlay." 

Fabian  left  the  Academic  with  his  play  in 
his  pocket,  but  by  no  means  as  hundreds  of 
poor  authors  have  done  when  convinced 
of  managerial  repulse.  Starvation  did  not 
stare  him  in  the  face, .  but  a  fact  almost  as 
dreary  did  thus  envisage  him.  He  under- 
stood the  utter  hopelessness  of  trying.  The 
achievement  of  true  dramatic  fame  seemed 
visibly  to  lift  and  spread  above  him  like  the 
dome  of  a  monstrous  cavern.  He  had  no  sense 
of  being  crushed;  his  ambition  was  not 
founded  on  vanity,  as  so  often  happens  with 
men  of  his  aim  and  make,  in  whom  cynic 
revolt  speaks  like  the  voix  du  sang  of  a  breed 
fed  on  fare  of  caste  and  place. 

"I  suppose  I  shall  always  go  on  writing 
plays,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  walked 
homeward  through  the  fitful  gloom  and 
gleam  of  an  April  afternoon.  "But  such  as 
they  are,  they  will  not  be  worthy  of  the 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  169 

Academic  and  of  Mr.  Belsize's  wanton  ma- 
nipulations— Heaven  forbid!" 

He  wondered,  while  thus  musing,  that  no 
despondency  laid  its  touch  on  his  spirits. 
But  soon  the  explanation  grew  sweetly  yet 
inexorably  clear.  He  was  going  home  to 
recount  his  defeat.  And  to  whom?  To  Alicia! 


170  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 


IX. 

She  was  radiant  with,  sympathy,  and 
Eninger  as  well.  Fabian  laughed  at  them 
both  for  their  vivid  expressions  of  regret. 

"  I  should  hate,"  he  said,  "  to  see  my  play 
emblazoned  and  filigreed  into  popularity.  I 
suppose  every  artist  is  at  root  an  egotist,  but 
that  does  not  of  necessity  make  him  a 
mountebank.  And  after  all,  it  matters  very 
little.  I  don't  claim  any  great  philosophic 
sapience,  but  it  has  long  ago  seemed  to  me 
that  the  sole  unmercenary  joy  a  man  gets 
from  pen,  brush  or  chisel  is  in  simply  wield- 
ing either  with  patience  and  love.  Human 
applause,  delicious  though  some  ears  find  it, 
never  yet  fully  satisfied.  It  is  always  either 
too  loud,  or  not  loud  enough.  No  wonder  that 
wisdom  often  prefers  the  compromise  of 
silence." 

"It's  pleasant  to  feel  that  you  are  proof 
against  disappointment,"  said  Alicia;  and  a 


FABIAX    DIMITRY.  171 

soft  thrill  passed  through  Fabian  as  she 
spoke  the  words.  The  realization  of  her 
sympathy  was  so  exquisite  to  him  that  he 
would  have  braved  severe  disappointment 
for  just  the  purpose  of  hearing  a  few  such 
humane  sentences  from  her  lips.  For  he 
still  loved  her  with  inalienable  passion,  and 
there  were  times  when  the  fever  and  tumult 
wrought  in  him  by  living  as  near  her  as  he 
did,  were  a  harsh  challenge  to  endurance. 
Then  again  he  would  feel  throes  of  the  hap- 
piest gratitude  for  being  thus  vouchsafed  an 
existence  so  entirely  shorn  of  all  former 
tedium,  so  freighted  with  pleasure  that  still 
deserved  no  other  name,  although  its  quality 
was  both  hectic  and  aggravating,  and  pain 
lay  like  a  coiled  worm  at  its  core. 

Eninger  now  devoted  himself  with  great 
push  and  warmth  to  his  profession,  using 
what  means  of  advancement  were  given  him 
by  the  name  he  bore  in  this  the  city  of  his 
birth.  Through  the  early  weeks  of  spring 
he  began  to  detect  signs  of  increasing  thrift. 
Several  rich  and  important  patients  put 
themselves  in  his  hands,  half  through  luck 


172  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

and  half  because  they  had  been  friends  of 
his  parents,  or  of  kindred  more  remote.     He 
was  glad,  for  this  reason,  that  Fabian  chose 
to  accompany  his  wife  in  his  own  stead  on 
little  social  pilgrimages  which  would  sadly 
have  tyrannized  over  his  needed  time.     His 
faith   in    his  wife's  love  for  him  had  now 
become  absolute.    As  regarded  his  thoughts 
about  Fabian's  feelings  toward  Alicia,  these 
might   have    been    named    a    nullity.      He 
looked  upon  Fabian  through  spectacles  ide- 
ally roseate.     Even  allowing  that  his  friend 
still  loved  Alicia,   how    could   there  be    a 
shadow  of  danger  for  her  in   the   compan- 
ionship of  so  splendidly  self-controlled  and 
moral  a  being?     She  was  doubly  guarded,  in 
the  first  place  by  her  wifely  allegiance,  and  in 
the  second  by  Fabian's  almost  saintly  honor. 
Eninger,  let  it  here  be  said,  was  wholly 
right  in  his  estimates.     We  know  how  sen- 
sitive was  his  nature  to  all  shades  of  emo- 
tion,  impression  and  conviction.     He  had 
not  erred  now;  he  knew  what  he  was  doing, 
or  rather  what  he  quietly  waived  the  per- 
formance of.    But  a  certain  extraneous  force 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  173 

presently  strove  to  thrust  sly  stabs  within 
the  creases  of  his  rather  tough  panoply. 

He  visited  Mrs.  Westerveldt  morning  after 
morning.  He  soon  discovered  that  her  neu- 
ralgia was  merely  a  dainty  myth  and  that 
she  wanted  his  society — or  at  least  had 
chosen  to  seem  as  if  she  wanted  it — far  more 
than  any  of  his  curative  drugs.  He  had 
repeated  twinges  of  conscience  during  these 
interviews,  for  the  woman,  in  her  perfect 
grace  and  her  marble  loveliness,  fascinated 
him  as  he  scarcely  dared  admit  to  himself. 
Through  quite  an  interval  she  refrained  from 
showing  him  any  knowledge  that  Fabian, 
his  wife's  old  lover,  had  become  a  resident 
in  his  home.  Then,  a  little  later,  she  con- 
trived to  make  it  appear  as  if  he  himself 
had  informed  her  of  this  occurrence. 

She  always  received  him  in  gowns  that 
were  marvels  of  quiet  taste.  Her  dwelling 
was  modesty  and  luxury  interblent  in  cap- 
tivating comminglement.  She  said  to  him 
one  morning,  when  the  talk  drifted  upon 
charm  in  women  and  their  modes  of  creat- 
ing it: 


174  FABIAN    DIMITKY. 

u  I  can't  think  why  it  is  that  so  many 
tellers  of  stories  like  to  associate  their  femi- 
nine pets  with  '  a  delicate  perfume  peculiar 
to  herself,'  or  'an  odor  of  that  undefined 
sort  which  clung  to  every  fold  of  her  gar- 
ments,' or  trash  like  that,  of  which  we  are 
forced  to  read  pages  and  pages.  The  truth 
is,  no  woman  who  has  the  really  cultured 
sense  can  endure  that  kind  of  atmospheric 
self-advertising.  Show  me  one  who  is  at- 
tended forever  and  a  day  by  a  '  soft,  cling- 
ing perfume '  which  only  she  possesses,  and 
I  will  both  deny  the  originality  of  her  bottle 
of  scent  and  explain  to  you  that  she  is  a 
person  of  sleeping  if  not  active  vulgarities. 
A  woman  who  is  healthful  and  cleanly  of 
life  should  always  have  the  good -sense  to 
content  herself  with  a  drop  or  two  of 
pure  English  cologne  on  her  handkerchief. 
Essences  are  an  infamy;  they  should  only 
belong  to  the  women  who  are  not  on  my 
list  of  conversational  topics." 

He  would  watch  her  as  she  sat  beside  him, 
with  her  white,  taper  hands  and  her  edu- 
cated smile.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  175 

the  sort  of  woman  to  set  nearly  any  man's 
heart  beating  wildly,  and  yet  somehow  she 
quite  failed  of  this  effect  as  regarded  himself. 
Perhaps  it  might  have  been  wholly  other- 
wise but  for  the  tender  domination  of  Alicia's 
influence.  At  the  same  time  Gertrude  West- 
erveldt  charmed  him.  Only,  her  sway  could 
never  pass  beyond  certain  bounds.  He  won- 
dered if  she  were  beginning  to  detect  this, 
for  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  she  was  bent 
on  some  sort  of  conquest — on  receiving  some 
sort  of  distinct  surrender. 

' '  What  a  blissful  little  family-group  you 
must  make,"  she  said,  after  he  had  been 
adroitly  lured,  one  morning,  into  a  description 
of  the  life  they  led  in  Forty-Second  Street, 
now  that  Fabian  had  gone  there.  ' '  You  send 
shudders  of  envy  through  my  poor  solitary 
soul." 

"No  state  of  human  affairs  could  be  very 
blissful,"  replied  Eninger,  "with  that  old 
Diogenes  of  a  Colonel  Delamere  constantly 
at  his  growls." 

"  He  must  be  trying.     And  your  wife  can 

not  repress  him?" 
12 


176  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"I  sometimes  think  a  ball-and-cliain 
couldn't." 

"But  after  all,  he  is  only  a  slight  trial. 
You've  so  much  else  to  be  thankful  for." 

"Ah,  now  you're  sneering." 

"I?" 

"  Yes.  You  think  this  new  arrangement 
a  most  extraordinary  one." 

She  gracefully  lifted  both  hands  for  a 
moment,  and  then  dropped  them.  "But  I 
don't  sneer  at  extraordinary  things.  On  the 
contrary,  I  sometimes  delight  in  them." 

"  Oh,  convention  is  a  powerful  god  in  your 
theogony,"  he  said.  "Don't  assert  that  it 
isn't," 

"I  like  what  is  called  good  form,"  she 
returned;  "I  like  it  in  everything." 

"And  you  don't  consider  it  good  form  for 
Fabian  Dimitry  to  have  come  to  live  with 
us?" 

"Bless  me,  how  you  take  a  person  up," 
she  smiled.  "Did  I  even  suggest  anything 
so  rude?  And  surely  it's  altogether  a  ques- 
tion of  how  your  wife  stands  the  wear  and 
tear." 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  177 

"The  wear  and  tear?"  he  echoed.  And 
then,  leaning  back  a  little  in  his  chair,  he 
looked  at  her  doubtfully,  as  though  uncertain 
whether  she  were  satiric  or  merely  sportive. 
"In  the  name  of  common-sense,"  he  went 
on,  seriously  and  with  even  a  tinge  of  pique, 
"you  can't  mean  that  I'm  not  sure  of  just 
the  way  in  which  my  wife  regards  her  past?" 

"Common-sense  has  very  little  to  do  with 
matters  of  emotion,"  she  said.  "Don't 
appeal  to  it,  for  as  a  patron  of  sentiment  it's 
a  hollower  god  than  the  convention  you  ac- 
cuse me  of  adoring." 

He  bit  his  lip;  she  irritated  while  she 
diverted  him. 

"It's no  matter  of  emotion  with  Alicia," 
he  asserted,  somewhat  crisply;  "Fabian  is 
her  friend  and  mine.  There  everything 
begins — and  ends." 

He  watched  the  coming  of  her  cold  little 
skeptical  smile.  He  was  prepared  to  see  it 
dawn,  chill  and  slight,  at  the  tips  of  her  lips. 
But  when  it  came  it  vexed  him,  nevertheless. 

"  He  was  once  her  lover,"  she  said,  almost 
under  her  breath,  and  looking  down  while 


178  FABIAN    DIMITEY. 

she  lightly  brushed  some  speck  from  the  lap 
of  her  frock. 

"I  was  once  yours,"  he  responded,  with  a 
daring  born  of  his  covert  exasperation. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  and  her  smile 
grew  bright,  even  ample,  for  her.  "I 
haven't  gone  to  live  in  Forty- Second 
Street,"  she  murmured,  with  a  sarcasm  that 
seemed  wrapped  in  soft  veils  of  mirth.  "  I 
wonder  how  your  Alicia  would  feel  if  I  did 
go.  Would  she  be  uncomfortable?  Ah, 
there  would  not  exist  for  her  any  earthly 
reason.  We  were  never  engaged;  we  never 
plighted  vows  to  each  other.  Besides,  she 
has  no  doubt  the  same  immense  faith  in  you 
that  you  repose  in  her." 

"A  faith  you  reproach  me  for  entertain- 
ing." 

"  Have  I  said  that?" 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  think  that  you  dis- 
liked my  wife." 

"Disliked  her?  What  conclusive  leaps 
you  take!  She's  a  very  enviable  woman." 

"  Thanks.  But  that  isn't  saying  that  you 
like  her." 


FABIAN  DIMITRY.  179 

"I  admire  her.  I've  not  yet  had  the 
chance  to  become  fond  of  her.  £a  ?narc7ie, 
however  .  .  .  we're  getting  to  be  better 
friends  all  the  while.  In  the  meantime  I've 
reached  one  fixed  belief  about  her." 

"And  that  is?" 

"  She's  a  particularly  clever  woman.  She 
has  much  more  tact  and  shrewdness  than  I 
at  first  gave  her  credit  for." 

These  latter  tones  of  Mrs.  Westerveldt' s 
were  more  than  innocently  non-committal  in 
their  quiet  ring.  Eninger  now  rose  and 
glanced  at  his  watch,  like  the  delayed  physi- 
cian he  really  was.  Having  taken  his  leave, 
shortly  afterward,  he  began  to  feel,  as  he 
walked  through  the  sunshine  of  a  day  rarely 
suave  for  New  York  in  early  March,  that  a 
little  drop  of  poisonous  alarm  and  discomfort 
had  stolen  into  his  being.  But  to  meet 
Fabian  once  more  and  answer  his  honest 
gaze,  brought  stings  of  self -rebuke.  He  so 
utterly  trusted  his  friend  that  this  thought 
came  to  him:  If  Fabian  himself  believed 
there  was  any  arriere  pensee  of  a  dangerous 
kind  in  Alicia  he  would  never  have  con- 


180  FABIAN  DIMTTKY. 

sented  to  take  his  recent  step.  Looking  once 
more  into  Alicia's  eyes  produced  a  like  sense 
of  compunction.  He  almost  found  himself 
regretting  that  Mrs.  Westerveldt  had  gra- 
ciously agreed  to  come  and  dine  at  his  house 
on  the  following  day. 

But  the  dinner  proved  as  pleasant  as  it 
was  informal.  The  Colonel's  bronchitis, 
breaking  out  in  a  sudden  severe  attack  and 
keeping  him  upstairs  aflame  with  anathemas 
against  the  hateful  American  mutability  of 
the  climate,  produced  an  -absence  that  only 
hypocrisy  could  have  mourned.  Mrs.  West- 
erveldt appeared  to  lay  aside  her  statelier 
reserve  as  though  it  were  an  opera-cloak  that 
she  had  let  slip  from  her  neat-modelled 
shoulders.  These  shoulders  were  darkly 
beclouded  with  the  same  black  lace  that 
filmed  itself  over  the  sable  silk  of  her  gown, 
and  she  wore  no  jewels  except  three  or  four 
tiny  clusters  of  diamonds  glittering  from  the 
region  of  throat  and  l>osom.  She  chose  to 
show  how  charmingly  animated  and  affable 
she  could  be  at  a  small  dinner  like  the  pres- 
ent one,  and  after  she  had  left  the  dining- 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  181 

room  with  her  hostess,  Eninger  and  Fabian 
discussed  her  quite  admiringly  over  their 
cigarettes. 

Entering  the  drawing-room,  they  found 
that  neither  Alicia  nor  her  guest  awaited 
them  there.  Both  ladies,  as  it  happened, 
were  at  this  moment  upstairs  in  Alicia's 
dressing-room.  They  had  seated  themselves 
beside  one  another  on  an  inviting  divan,  near 
a  fire  that  'sparkled  cheerily  in  the  shaded 
light.  For  some  little  time  they  talked 
together,  and  during  these  moments  Mrs. 
Westerveldt  seemed  clothed  for  her  observer 
in  a  wholly  new  mantle  of  fascination.  She 
had  been  delightful  at  dinner;  up  here  she 
became  attractive  in  a  fresh  and  even  more 
feminine  way.  She  questioned  Alicia  about 
her  transatlantic  life  and  yet  with  not  the 
least  touch  of  what  could  seem  undue  curi- 
osity. Was  she  putting  forth,  for  some 
reason,  her  full  powers  of  enchantment?  If 
indeed  there  was  any  effort  of  this  nature  it 
now  passed  wholly  unperceived. 

"How  is  it,"  she  at  length  said,  "that 
you  Englishwomen  so  often  have  such  lovely 


182  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

coloring?  You  must  forgive  me  for  being  so 
personal,  but  there's  a  rose,  just  now,  on 
either  of  your  cheeks  that  seldom  enough 
grows  in  our  Western  gardens.1' 

Each  rose  turned  a  little  redder,  and  Alicia 
laughed  with  a  fluttered  tone  as  she  answered: 
"  I'm  a  bit  nervous  this  evening,  somehow. 
I  suppose  that  has  made  me  look  flushed." 

Mrs.  Westerveldt  took  her  hand,  caressing 
it  with  both  her  own.  "I  thought  nobody 
was  ever  nervous  in  your  country,"  she  said. 
"I  had  supposed  that  we  Americans  monop- 
olized nerves  completely.  Your  hand  is 
really  quite  hot.  I  hope  you're  never  a 
victim,  by  the  way,  to  my  own  horrid  foe, 
neuralgia?" 

"  No,"  said  Alicia.  With  a  sudden  gesture 
that  seemed  half  unconscious,  she  drew  away 
the  hand  that  her  companion  held,  and  lifted 
it  an  instant  toward  the  back  of  her  head. 
"But  I  have  strange  darting  pains  there" 
she  said,  "though  only  at  times." 

"And  you  tell  your  husband  about  them?  " 

"No." 

"And  pray  why  not?  " 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  183 

"Oil,  I  hate  to  worry  him.  He's  had 
annoyances  enough,  as  it  is,  of  late.  We've 
both  had." 

' '  Ah,  these  may  account  for  your  pains. 
But  I  thought  you  were  very  happy.  You 
have  seemed  very  happy,  always,  though  I 
admit  that  you  do  sometimes  have  a  slightly 
worried  look. ' ' 

' '  I  am  happy — deeply  so,  as  far  as  con- 
cerns 7^/m." 

"Him?    Your  husband,  of  course?" 

"Who  else?" 

"  Then  there  are  other  causes  for  your  dis- 
content? But  I'll  annul  that  question;  I'll 
consider  it  unspoken;  it  sounds  fatally 
familiar." 

"Don't  think  it  so,"  Alicia  gently  ex- 
claimed. "Yes,  there  are  other  causes.  It's 
almost  a  borrowing  of  trouble,  however,  for 
me  to  speak  of  them.  Perhaps  I  should  dis- 
miss them  altogether.  Ray  tells  me  I  should 
— but  never  mind."  She  broke  off  here, 
'with  what  seemed  to  her  auditor  an  odd 
abruptness.  Quickly  afterward  she  rose. 
"  Shall  we  go  down-stairs  again?  "  she  asked. 


184  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"By  all  means,  if  you  wish." 

"Perhaps  the  gentlemen  have  ended  their 
smoking." 

"  Yes;  their  tobacco  is  a  dreadful  tyranny, 
isn't  it?"  murmured  Mrs.  Westerveldt,  as 
she  moved  toward  the  dressing-glass.  "May 
I  look  at  myself  here  for  an  instant? " 

"Oh,  by  all  means,"  Alicia  answered. 
And  just  then  her  guest  saw  her  stoop  and 
pick  up  something,  which  flashed  like  an 
electric  spark  before  she  hid  or  seemed  to 
hide  it.  This  was  witnessed  in  the  mirror  by 
Mrs.  Westerveldt,  and  for  a  brief  space  not 
remarked  as  an  act  of  the  slightest  import. 
But  presently  she  was  assailed  by  a  sense  of 
loss,  glancing  downward  at  the  dark  laces 
which  clad  her  breast. 

"  Ah,  too  bad! "  she  said. 

Alicia  glided  up  to  her.  "What  is  too 
bad* ' '  came  her  question. 

"  One  of  my  little  diamond  stars  must  h'ave 
dropped  from  my  gown.  I  remember  that 
the  pin  was  slightly  disjointed;  my  maid1 
told  me  so  this  evening.  Could  I  have  lost 
it  here?" 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  185 

"Here?"  replied  Alicia.  Mrs.  Wester- 
veldt  turned  and  faced  her  as  she  thus  spoke. 
Those  roses  on  her  cheeks  had  suddenly 
vanished. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  she  went  on,  and  began 
to  search  the  carpet  with  drooped  head. 
Mrs.  Westerveldt  stood  and  watched  her 
while  she  did  so.  Presently  the  two  searched 
together.  ' '  Shall  I  call  a  servant?' '  soon 
continued  Alicia.  "Or  perhaps  I'd  better 
turn  up  all  the  lights." 

"Thanks,"  replied  Mrs.  Westerveldt:  "I 
mean,  you  may  make  it  brighter  if  you  will 
kindly  do  so.  That  is  all. ' ' 

Alicia  went  to  the  gas-fixtures  and  quickly 
filled  the  room  with  a  much  keener  radiance. 
Then,  under  this  new  aid,  the  search  recom- 
menced. But  meanwhile  Mrs.  Westerveldt' s 
eyes  had  slipped  certain  covert  glances  toward 
the  face  of  her  hostess.  Alicia's  paleness 
appeared  sharply  unusual,  and  once  or 
twice  her  step  had  almost  the  effect  of  a 
stagger. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  Mrs.  Westerveldt  sud- 
denly said,  ceasing  to  scan  the  floor.  "I 


186  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

should  not  be  surprised  if  I  had  made  some 
mistake." 

"  Some  mistake?"  faltered  Alicia,  meeting 
the  gaze  directed  on  her  and  then  averting 
her  eyes. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Eninger,"  came  the  answer, 
very  softly  and  courteously  uttered.  "It's 
no  doubt  all  my  own  stupidity.  I  dare  say 
my  maid  did  not  give  me  the  little  star,  after 
all.  I'm  so  forgetful  about  these  trifling 
matters.  If  I'm  wrong,  however,  and  you 
should  come  across  it  in  dining-room,  draw- 
ing-room, hall,  or  anywhere,  please  have  the 
goodness — but  I  needn't  ask  that,  need  I?" 
And  she  smiled  quite  brilliantly  upon  Alicia, 
adding:  "Now,  pray  do  not  bore  yourself 
with  thinking  about  this  trifle  for  another 
moment  .  .  .  Let  us  go  down  and  join  the 
gentlemen,  as  you  suggested." 

"But  I  will  order  the  servants — "  began 
Alicia. 

"  Oh,  no,"  amiably  broke  in  Mrs.  Wester- 
veldt."  "  Pray  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  As 
I  said,  it  may  all  have  been  the  fault  of  my 
maid,  who  probably  put  the  jewel  back  into 
my  box  ..." 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  187 

They  went  down-stairs  soon  afterward,  but 
Mrs.  Westerveldt,  as  they  descended,  man- 
aged to  make  some  new  arrangement  of  her 
small  scintillant  ornaments,  thus  rendering 
the  gap  caused  by  the  missing  one  far  less 
noticeable. 

Alicia  did  not  refer  to  the  affair  when  the 
drawing-room  was  reached  and  Eninger  and 
Fabian  had  been  discovered  there.  Mrs. 
Westerveldt  furtively  waited,  yet  no  refer- 
ence came.  She  had  already  drawn  her  own 
conclusions;  they  soon  grew  more  bitingly 
distinct.  The  chill  of  an  actual  horror  had 
fallen  upon  her,  but  she  tried  to  shake  it 
off.  In  this  her  success  was  only  partial; 
there  were  intervals  when  the  voices  of 
Fabian  and  Eninger  sounded  far  away, 
as  if  they  were  calling  to  her  from  the  next 
room.  Why  did  not  Alicia  speak?  It  was 
damning,  all  things  considered,  that  she 
should  not  ...  At  last  the  hour  for  her  de- 
parture had  come.  She  rose  and  went  up  to 
Alicia,  saying,  "I've  had  a  most  delightful 
evening,"  with  lips  that  seemed  to  her  as  if 
they  must  be  blanched  an  ashen  hue.  But 


188  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

soon  afterward,  while  giving  a  quick  stare  at 
herself  in  a  long  glass,  she  saw  that  her 
face  had  not  altered.  She  was  a  woman  who 
believed  in  being  calm;  perhaps  Eninger 
would  have  judged  more  correctly  of  her  if 
he  could  have  known  that  she  had  had  at 
least  one  emotion  in  her  life,  and  that  one — 
himself.  But  surely  all  other  deep  feeling 
had  suffered  in  her  a  process  of  massacre, 
silent  yet  total.  However,  such  repression 
and  extinction  may  have  been  brought  about 
is  not  by  any  means  as  easy  for  the  analyst 
of  the  human  heart  to  explain  as  for  the 
astronomer  to  tell  us  how  he  weighs  a  world 
in  space.  One  effort  has  behind  it  the  lucid 
laws  of  mathematics;  the  other  deals  with  a 
far  more  baffling  infinity. 

Fabian  escorted  her  into  her  carriage. 
She  was  trembling,  as  he  closed  the  door 
with  a  hollow  little  clash,  from  an  agitation 
to  which  all  her  past  life  of  serene  self -equi- 
poise proffered  no  parallel.  She  threw  her- 
self back  on  the  cushions  of  the  vehicle  and 
with  locked  teeth  groaned  aloud. 

"  I  loved  that  man,  Ray  Eninger,''  ran  her 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  189 

thoughts,  as  the  wheels  below  her  smote 
strident  on  the  stony  avenue.  "I  loved 
him,  and  I  married  another  man  for  money 
because  my  heart  was  weary  and  tortured. 
Ah!  how  well  I  remember-  it  all  after  these 
years!  .  .  .  But  now  I  find  him  the  hus- 
band of  a  woman  like  that!  A  woman  he 
loves,  and  who  dares  to  pose  as  one  who 
loves  him  in  return.  She!  It's  monstrous — 
horrible!  That  turquoise  ring  I  almost  dis- 
charged my  maid,  Francoise,  for  stealing  on 
the  night  she  dined  with  me  .  .  .  why, 
who  but  she  took  it,  standing  there  at  my 
dressing-table  as  she  did?  I  never  dreamed 
of  suspecting  her  then.  But  to-night — to- 
night! ..." 

The  carriage  rolled  on,  with  harsh  clatters 
that  gradually  grew  like  spoken  words  to 
the  ear  on  which  they  struck. 

Mrs.  Wester  veldt  had  remained  until  now 
the  speechless  prey  of  her  own  savage  mus- 
ings. But  now  she  straightened  her  form  in 
the  dusk,  and  with  hands  instinctively 
clenched  she  spoke  aloud  what  rang  to  her 
own  sense  like  the  translation  into  clearer 


190  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

phrase  of  those  'discords  wrought  by  the 
driving  vehicle: 

"This  Englishwoman  he's  married  is  a 
thief— a  thief— a  thief!" 

When  the  carriage  presently  stopped  at 
her  own  door  she  was  so  faint  and  unnerved 
that  her  footman  had  to  give  her  his  arm 
before  she  could  alight  and  ascend  the  stoop. 


FABIAN    DIMITKY.  191 


"I'm  furious  about  the  way  the  Academic 
has  treated  you,"  said  Mrs.  Atterbury  one 
afternoon  to  Fabian,  when  he  had  dropped 
in  for  the  purpose  of  telling  her  the  news 
concerning  his  proffered  play.  ' '  This  Bel- 
size  is  a  horrid  wretch;  I've  heard  of  him; 
he  always  wants  a  pot  of  money  for  lobbying 
American  plays  through  the  theatre." 

"Oh,  Belsize  isn't  so  blamable,"  replied 
Fabian,  almost  gaily.  "  He's  only  the  inevi- 
table product  of  his  time." 

"  He's  an  extortionist  and  a  spendthrift," 
exclaimed  the  little  lady.  "Yes,  he's  both. 
I  know  him.  I've  heard  all  about  him  from 
three  or  four  of  my  literary  friends.  He 
smokes  the  most  expensive  cigars;  he  drinks 
champagne  like  water;  he's  a  luxurious 
Bohemian.  And  he  has  Mr.  Lascelles  under 
his  thumb.  There  wasn't  any  earthly  reason 
why  he  should  have  dared  to  propose  your 
giving  him  that  money." 


192  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"I  would  gladly  have  given  it  to  him," 
said  Fabian. 

"You  would,  you  goose!"  cried  Mrs.  At- 
terbury.  "Then  why  on  earth  didn't  you?" 

"  Because  I  didn't  feel  like  bribing  him  to 
leave  the  play  alone  and  make  believe  to 
Mr.  Lascelles  that  he'd  wrought  wonders 
with  it." 

"  Oh,  you  do  think  him  a  fraud,  then?" 

"  I  dare  say  that  few  of  us  are  intentional 
frauds." 

Mrs.  Atterbury  pursed  her  lips  and  gave 
her  head  a  cogitative  slant.  Then  a  charac- 
teristic answer  came  from  her,  made  up  of 
sound  sense  and  flippancy  in  motley  conjunc- 
tion. 

"I  do  so  detest  that  exonerating  style 
toward  self-evident  humbugs.  We  can  par- 
don an  ass  if  he  talks  sophistries.  But  when  a 
clever  rogue  like  this  Belsize  does  it,  he  needs 
a  knock-down  fist,  straight  from  the  shoulder. 
Now,  look  here :  your  work  has  nature's  own 
beauty  and  power  in  it;  its  tints  and  tones 
and  lights  are  as  true  as  one  of  Constable's 
best  landscapes.  You've  got  satire— lots; 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  193 

but  you've  charity  to  counterbalance  it,  and 
make  just  the  proper  harmony  we  mean  by 
that  funny  little  misused  word  we  call  art. 
You've  got  other  qualities — oh,  confound 
it  all,  Tm  not  to  be  gammoned  with  the 
sly  rot  of  a  special  pleader  like  this  fellow, 
Belsize.  He  had  his  own  axe  to  grind,  and 
thought  you'd  help  him  put  a  sharp  edge  on 
it." 

"And  you  thought,"  said  Fabian,  smiling, 
"that  I  should  have  used  that  axe  to  hew 
my  path  toward  fame  and  fortune? " 

She  looked  at  him  in  her  genuine,  earnest, 
slightly  rowdy  way.  "Oh,  stuff!  I  don't 
believe  you  care  a  fig  for  either  fame  or 
fortune!  You'd  keep  writing  your  exquisite 
plays  if  you'  d  been  cast  on  a  lonely  island 
and  never  expected  to  get  off  it."  Here  she 
made  a  slight  grimace.  "  But  I  don't  know 
about  the  solitude;  I'm  afraid  you'd  hate 
that  pretty  badly  for  one  reason.  Your 
Egeria  couldn't  be  found  in  any  of  those 
island  grottoes,  you  know;  she's  a  goddess 
peculiar  to  Forty-Second  Street." 

"  And  one,"  he  answered,  rather  sombrely, 


194  FABIAN    DIMITBY. 

"in  whose  divinity  you  seem  to  repose  very 
little  faith." 

"I've  not  met  her  at  all  often,  please 
remember.  Personally,  I've  always  thought 
her  fetching  to  any  degree." 

"  Who's  fetching  to  any  degree?"  said  a 
voice  in  the  doorway,  and  Lewsy  Atterbury, 
home  from  Wall  Street  a  little  earlier  than 
was  his  wont,  lounged  into  the  room.  "  Show 
me  a  woman  that's  more  fetching  than  my 
wife,  and  I'll  send  her  the  swellest  landau 
that  '11  be  seen  in  the  park  from  now  till 
next  July." 

"Good  heavens,  Lewsy,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Atterbury;  "  as  if  she'd  accept  it  unless  she 
were  frightfully  bad  form!  " 

"Isn't  that  a  comfortable  chair  you've 
got?"  proceeded  Lewsy,  as  Fabian  rose  to 
shake  hands  with  him.  '"Ponmy  word,  I 
don't  believe  there's  a  chair  in  this  whole 
town  that  can  quite  match  it.  Just  run  your 
hand  round  among  those  side  cushions — see 
how  deep  they  are;  how  they  sort  of  sneak 
into  the  small  of  your  back  and  the  rear  part 
of  your  ribs.  Eh?  Isn't  that  true? "  And  then 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  195 

he  began  a  narration  about  his  unique  luck 
in  picking  up  the  chair  at  a  wondrously  low 
price.  Fabian  only  half  listened.  Once  he 
had  thought  Lewsy  a  diverting  egotist,  but 
of  late  his  vaunts  had  appeared  too  steeped 
in  monotony. 

"We  were  just  talking  about  Mrs.  Enin- 
ger,  Lewsy,"  now  said  his  wife,  while  Fabian 
shot  toward  her  a  glance  of  involuntary  dis- 
approval. "She's  a  fetching  woman.  If 
you  don't  think  so  you  mustn't  say  it,  or 
you'll  run  the  risk  of  being  torn  limb  from 
limb." 

"  Mrs.  Eninger?"  Lewsy  seemed  to  muse. 
"Oh,  yes;  she's  a  beauty — a  stunning 
beauty."  He  turned  to  Fabian  with  eyes 
a-twinkle  and  visible  laughter  lurking  below 
his  large  moustache.  "  I'  11  bet,  though,  Dim- 
itry,  that  she  don' t  measure  round  the  waist  as 
little  as  my  Adela  does.  Now  we  both  know 
that  Adela  ^6'  a  trifle  stout  for  her  size;  but 
then " 

"  Lewsy,  do  you  want  to  be  throttled,  you 
personal  scamp,  you?"  cried  Mrs.  Atterbury. 

Fabian  felt  a  light  wave  of  disgust  sweep 


196  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

through  his  nerves.  He  no  longer  could  see 
the  least  trace  of  amusement  in  this  coarse 
boasting  on  the  part  of  his  friend's  husband. 
Mrs.  Atterbury,  perhaps  discerning  his  an- 
noyance, chose  to  pull  a  sharp  rein  upon  her 
frivolities.  Abruptly  she  became  decorous, 
demure,  thoughtful.  She  showed  Fabian 
that  side  of  her  individuality  which  in  cer- 
tain moods  he  had  almost  grown  to  cherish. 
The  change  in  her  seemed  quick  as  if  magic 
had  made  it.  On  a  sudden,  as  it  were,  he 
heard  her  saying: 

.  :.  "Oh,  yes;  my  Wednesdays  are  a 
social  failure,  and  the  more  I  see  of  New 
York  the  more  I  realize  the  impossibility  of 
&  salon.  There's  a  real  pathos  in  the  way 
caste  deports  itself  here.  It  has  none  of  the 
self-reliance  that  belongs  to  aristocracies 
oversea.  It's  afraid  of  its  own  respecta- 
bility; it  doesn't  dare  unbend.  Mrs.  Amster- 
dam comes  to  drawing-rooms  and  looks  all 
about  her  with  a  little  provincial  simper  that 
I'  ve  learned  to  know  by  heart.  She'  d  love  to 
plunge  into  things  and  have  a  good  frank  talk 
with  Jones,  the  journalist,  or  Tamarini,  the 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  197 

tenor.  But  she' s  a  mortal  inward  dread  that  to 
do  so  might  hurt  her  escutcheon  of  rank — orig 
inally  a  sign-board  over  some  little  shop 
near  the  Battery,  where  her  ancestors,  only 
a  few  generations  ago,  vended  anything  at 
retail,  from  tobacco  to  cutlery.  .  .  No,  I  de- 
spair of  trying  ever  to  make  sets  mix.  Large 
civilizations  do  that.  London  does  it  very 
successfully;  Paris  does  it  as  only  Paris  can; 
New  York  will  some  day  do  it,  but  by  that 
time  I  suppose  they'll  be  reading  our  names 
on  the  tombstones  at  Greenwood  Cemetery 
and  wondering  what  a  village  New  York 
must  have  looked  like  when  Central  Park 
was  considered  up  town  and  High  Bridge 
was  actually  called  a  suburb." 

Fabian  broke  into  a  pleased  smile  at  this; 
he  had,  in  a  way,  got  his  old  friend  enter- 
tainingly and  suggestively  back  again.  But 
in  a  trice  Lewsy  spoiled  everything  for  him 
by  an  affable  slap  on  the  thigh  and  a  gleeful 
exclamation  of 

"  There,  old  chap!  How's  that  for  a  burst 
of  wit  and  wisdom  combined  and  condensed 
.  .  eh?  D'you  believe  Mrs.  Eninger  could 


198  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

beat  it?  I  guess  she'd  have  to  get  up  pretty 
early  in  the  morning  if  she  wanted  to." 

Fabian  found  a  prompt  opportunity  of 
taking  his  leave.  Just  before  he  did  so  he 
told  his  hostess  that  perhaps  he  might  accom- 
pany Mrs.  Eninger  to  her  next  Wednesday, 
but  that  he  thought  Mr.  Eninger  had  an  en- 
gagement for  that  particular  evening.  After 
he  had  gone,  Lewsy  returned  from  having 
seen  their  guest  out  at  the  hall-door,  and 
joined  his  incomparable  Adela,  with  a  long, 
significant  whistle. 

" So,  Ad,  eh,  it's  come  to  this,  has  it?"  he 
drawled,  in  a  nasal  exaggeration  doubtless 
caught  from  Wall  Street. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Lewsy?"  said  his 
wife,  with  a  kind  of  absent  tartness  in  her 
tone. 

"So  Dimitry's  beginning  to  drop  into 
Eninger' s  shoes,  is  he?" 

"Hush,  please." 

"At  present  he  wears  them  now  and  then, 
just  for  a  flyer.  Pretty  soon  he'll  want  to 
wear  them  altogether.  Isn't  that  about  the 
size  of  it?" 


FABIAN    DMITRY.  199 

"Oh,  nonsense.  Recollect  he  might  have 
married  her  once,  if  he'd  felt  inclined." 

But  even  while  Mrs.  Atterbury  thus  spoke, 
the  current  of  her  thoughts  took  a  different 
turn.  She  had  begun  to  distrust  Alicia,  and 
with  severer  bitterness  than  she  herself 
knew.  The  conviction  that  Ray  Eninger's 
wife  was  all  art  and  subtlety  in  her  dealings 
with  Fabian  had  become  matter  for  incessant 
concern.  Yes,  Alicia  was  doubtless  as  deep 
as  the  sea— what  else  did  the  whole  affair 
look  like?  She  had  two  men  at  her  beck  and 
call;  she  was  playing  a  game  that  some 
women  loved  better  than  to  wear  a  new  dress 
every  day  in  the  year.  She  was  one  of  your 
seeming-innocent  coquettes,  who  hid  the 
wisdom  of  a  serpent  inside  the  coo  of  a 
dove.  "It  might  have  been  luckier  for 
Fabian  Dimitry,"  Mrs.  Atterbury  would 
sometimes  muse,  "if  he'd  married  her  and 
she'd  borne  him  mad  children.  Now  he's 
gone  back  to  sit  at  her  feet,  and  suffer.  He 
won't  grant  that  he's  not  having  a  glorious 
time.  Still,  I  can  read,  as  it  were,  between 
the  lines  of  his  life." 


200  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

All  this  while  Mrs.  Atterbury  was  not 
really  sure  if  her  doubts  were  justified.  She 
wanted  to  see  more  of  Alicia,  and  at  her  own 
reception  the  following  night  she  made  a 
decided  point  of  doing  so.  Alicia  came  with 
Fabian,  her  beauty  and  grace  attracting 
instant  attention  as  she  entered  the  room,  and 
causing  several  gentlemen  for  whom  Mrs. 
Atterbury' s  rather  promiscuous  Wednesdays 
meant  their  sole  excursions  into  the  grand 
monde,  promptly  to  seek  introductions.  It 
stung  his  hostess  as  she  observed  how  Fabian 
hovered  always  in  the  wake  of  Alicia.  There 
were  at  least  five  or  six  ladies  in  the  rooms 
to  whom  he  had  been  presented,  but  he 
either  forgot  this  fact  or  ignored  it.  His 
vassalage  was  in  both  cases,  however,  equally 
irritating.  Mrs.  Atterbury  watched  it  and 
grew  almost  alarmed  at  the  secret  turmoil  it 
stirred  in  her.  But  for  this  effect  she  had  a 
speedy  mental  explanation — or  believed  that 
she  had.  Women  who  stand,  as  she  did,  on 
the  borderland  of  passion,  are  apt  to  tell 
themselves  that  the  tropic  air  they  breathe 
into  their  nostrils  has  got  its  warmth  from 
friendship  alone. 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  201 

Her  rooms  were  somewhat  more  crowded 
to-night  than  usual.  "  You  see,"  she  said 
to  Alicia,  "there's  a  strong  tincture  of  the 
Four  Hundred  here  besides  my  unfashion- 
able friends.  It's  Lent,  you  know,  and  some 
of  the  smart  people  have  nothing  better  to 
do  than  come  to  m<3." 

But  she  contrived,  nevertheless,  to  stand 
for  a  good  while  at  the  elbow  of  Eninger's 
wife,  and  finally,  as  if  with  an  idea  of  quite 
taking  the  young  Englishwoman  unto  herself, 
she  slipped  her  arm  within  Alicia' s  and  mur- 
mured something  that  Fabian  failed  to  over- 
hear. Bat  he  followed  in  the  wake  of  the  two 
ladies  as  they  pushed  politely  through  the 
throng,  and  at  last  paused  before  a  closed 
door,  after  having  traversed  more  than  one 
festal  room.  Then  Mrs.  Atterbury  turned 
and  perceived  him,  and  at  once  she  said, 
with  a  hardness  in  her  voice  but  no  incivility: 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?  I  was  going  to  show 
Mrs.  Eninger  my  Lewsy's  collection.  You've 
seen  it,  I  believe." 

"Yes;  more  than  once,"  replied  Fabian, 
plainly  unsuspicious  of  the  truth. 


202  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

Mrs.  Atterbury  opened  the  door  and  dis- 
closed an  interior  much  smaller  than  either 
of  the  rooms  just  crossed.  She  detested 
seals,  cameos,  etc.,  when  viewed  purely  from 
the  collector's  point  of  view,  and  so  did  her 
husband,  who  would  never  have  brought 
together  the  present  cabinetful.  It  had  been 
bequeathed  him  by  an  uncle  who  had  passed 
many  years  in  the  role  of  the  rich  American 
virtuoso  living  abroad;  it  was  of  dark,  red- 
dish wood,  exquisitely  carved,  and  it  rose 
against  the  rich-tinted  wall  of  the  little  cham- 
ber dedicated  to  it,  with  a  delicate  antique 
dignity. 

"If  ever  a  man  had  a  white  elephant  on 
his  hands,"  declared  Mrs.  Atterbury,  after 
she  had  shut  the  door  beyond  which  they 
had  all  three  passed,  "  it  is  my  poor  Lewsy 
in  his  possession  of  this  cabinet."  She  flitted 
to  a  corner  and  reached  her  short  arm  ludi- 
crously down  into  the  interior  of  a  huge 
Japanese  vase.  "  We  keep  the  key  here,  in 
the  most  reckless  way, ' '  she  proceeded.  "  It' s 
flinging  temptation  into  the  teeth  of  our 
servants,  as  I  often  tell  Lewsy.  But  then 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  203 

we're  both  so  careless  about  keys  and  things 
like  that  .  .  .  Ah,  there  it  is;  I've  nearly 
broken  my  arm  trying  to  get  it." 

At  once  the  cabinet  was  opened,  and  many 
small,  beautiful  treasures  were  disclosed. 
Mrs.  Atterbury,  in  her  most  flippant  mood, 
began  to  rattle  nonsense  about  the  worth  of 
the  superb  collection,  and  her  frequent  long- 
ings to  spend  it  as  if  it  were  a  practicable 
bank-account.  Fabian,  who  had  some  knowl- 
edge of  such  gems,  though  slight  cult  for 
them  when  ranged  in  rows  after  this  museum- 
like  fashion,  regarded  them  now  for  the  third 
or  fourth  time  with  relative  indifference. 
He  was  perhaps  too  preoccupied  to  notice 
that  Mrs.  Atterbury  secretly  bristled  with 
annoyance.  She  had  wanted  a  private  talk 
with  Alicia,  a  talk  of  exploit,  study,  acute 
observation.  His  presence  had  possibly  never 
before  been  distasteful  to  her.  But  it  was 
because  of  him  that  she  really  wished,  just 
then,  to  have  him  absent  from  the  wife  of  his 
friend. 

Alicia  bent  over  the  rarity  and  riches  of 
the  collection  with  eyes  that  pleasurably 


204  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

glistened.  For  a  little  while  Mrs.  Atterbury 
spoke  in  a  light,  explanatory,  brilliant  man- 
ner of  this  or  that  jewel,  hinting  at  historic 
and  archaic  details  which  few  but  her  inti- 
mates might  have  accredited  her  with  pos- 
sessing. Then,  while  Alicia  continued  her 
scrutinies,  with  golden  head  picturesquely 
bowed,  the  lady  of  the  house  turned  toward 
Fabian.  It  so  chanced  that  over  the  low, 
plump  shoulder  of  Mrs.  Atterbury  Fabian 
could  plainly  see  Alicia's  profile,  the  droop 
of  her  graceful  arms,  the  movement  or  repose 
of  her  slender  hands. 

"By  the  way,"  said  his  hostess,  ulsaw 
they're  advertising  a  new  play  as  '  in  prepara- 
tion' at  the  Academic." 

"Yes,  I  saw,"  said  Fabian. 

"Something  from  the  German,  this  time, 
revised  and  adapted  by  your  friend,  Mr.  Bel- 
size."  Mrs.  Atterbury  spoke  the  name  with 
a  mutinous  curl  of  her  HpL  "Oh,  what  a 
race  of  snobs  we  Americans  are  in  all  matters 
of  art!  How  afraid  we  are  to  come  out 
honestly  and  cultivate  the  works  of  our  own 
countrymen!  It's  bad  enough  with  our 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  205 

dramatists,  but  at  this  hour  and  in  this  town 
we've  American  painters  of  genius  almost 
without  bread  to  give  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren. .  .  What!  are  you  so  surprised  to  hear 
it?" 

"No — no,"  replied  Fabian  quickly,  "not 
surprised  at  all."  He  had  been  looking  at 
Alicia,  for  a  few  seconds,  and  it  would 
appear  as  if  something  he  had  seen  her  do 
had  driven  the  color  from  his  cheeks  in  this 
dismayed  style.  Mrs.  Atterbury  stared  at 
him  rather  bewilderedly,  and  then  turned 
toward  Alicia,  who  had  just  quitted  the 
cabinet. 

"Have  you  finished  your  inspection?" 
she  asked.  "And  has  it  really  not  bored 
you?" 

"Oh,  one  could  go  on  looking  all  night," 
was  the  answer. 

"You  may  do  so  if  you  please,"  laughed 
Mrs.  Atterbury.  "I'll  send  you  in  a  quart 
or  two  of  bouillon,  and  Mr.  Dimitry  will  of 
course  remain  and  keep  you  company." 

The  intended  satire  was  wholly  lost  upon 
Fabian.  His  eyes  were  fascinated  by  the 


20(3  FABIAN    DIMITKY. 

face  of  Alicia,  and  if  they  did  not  brim  with 
wild  alarm  it  was  because  of  the  self-control 
he  had  swiftly  exerted.  Alicia  did  not 
respond  to  his  look.  He  saw  that  a  slight 
new  flush  had  come  into  her  cheeks  and  that 
her  lips  were  in  a  faint  tremor.  Mrs.  Atter- 
bury  had  meanwhile  gone  to  the  cabinet 
for  the  purpose  of  closing  and  locking  it. 

Suddenly  she  started  back.  "Why,  what 
is  this*"  she  exclaimed. 

No  one  spoke.  Alicia  did  not;  Fabian 
could  not.  Mrs.  Atterbury's  gaze  went  from 
his  face  to  hers.  It  paused  at  the  latter 
before  transferring  itself  back  to  the  gap  she 
had  just  discovered  in  a  certain  row  of  the 
neat-ranged  curios. 

"Have  you  been  playing  a  little  practical 
joke  upon  me,  Mrs.  Eninger?"  she  asked. 

"  I?"  faltered  Alicia. 

She  smiled  and  put  her  head  dubiously  on 
one  side.  "Come,  now.  If  you've  just 
done  it  to  frighten  me,  I'll  forgive  you." 
And  she  held  out  her  hand  toward  Alicia. 

Fabian  found  a  voice,  then.  He  addressed 
Alicia.  "Mrs.  Atterbury  thinks,  evidently, 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  207 

that  you've  reason  to  be  forgiven."  He  tried 
to  speak  in  careless  tones,  but  wondered 
whether  they  really  sounded  as  odd  and 
hollow  as  his  own  ears  reported  them. 

Alicia  recoiled  a  little,  with  hands  clasped 
together  and  blue  eyes  excitedly  shining. 

"I— I  don' t  understand, ' '  she  said.  '  'What 
is  it  that  you  think  I  have  done?" 

Mrs.  Atterbury's  expression  underwent  an 
instant  change.  She  hurried  toward  Alicia 
and  laid  a  hand  on  each  of  her  shoulders. 
"Oh,  forgive  me!"  she  broke  forth.  "I 
thought  you  might  have  taken  one  of  the 
seals,  but  only  in  fun,  of  course.  I'm  so 
sorry  if  I've  annoyed  you!"  She  now  darted 
to  the  cabinet  once  more.  "Ah,  what  a  pity, 
what  a  pity!"  she  cried.  "This  comes  of 
Lewsy's  carelessness  and  my  own.  One  of 
the  servants  must  have  found  out  where  we 
put  that  key.  And  yet  I  thought  all  our 
servants  were  such  honest  creatures.  I 
thought " 

She  came  to  a  dead  stop,  then,  and  a 
blank  look  settled  upon  her  face,  like  the 
blur  of  frost  on  a  window-pane.  She 

14 


208  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

knitted  her  brows  in  a  perplexed  way  and 
lifted  one  hand  to  her  forehead.  "  But  I 
remember!"  she  at  length  cried,  and  pointed 
toward  the  spot  marked  by  the  absence  of 
the  missing  gem.  "It  was  there  but  a  few 
minutes  ago,"  she  pursued,  "when  I  first 
opened  the  cabinet.  Yes — yes;  I  can  not 
be  mistaken.  It  was  that  amethyst  intaglio, 
with  the  head  of  Hermes — almost  the  best 
thing  here.  I'm  fond  of  it;  I  always  notice 
it  first,  and  I'd  no  sooner  opened  the  cabinet 
this  evening  than  I  ..." 

But  here  she  again  paused.  "Oh,  what 
am  I  saying?"  she  speedily  recommenced, 
but  in  a  voice  full  of  pained  entreaty. 
"Don't  think  I  mean  any  insult  to — to 
either  of  yourselves.  But  I  saw  the  ame- 
thyst, and — and  how  could  it  have  been 
swept  away  by  a  sleeve  or  anything  like 
that?  They're  all  bedded  so  firmly  in  the 
velvet,  and  they're  set  too  far  back  to  be 
displaced  by  any  such  accident." 

She  was  now  busied  in  an  eager  survey 
of  the  collection.  Her  glance  swept  and 
reswept  its  various  files.  Then,  with  a 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  209 

despairing  shake  of  the  head,  she  briefly 
examined  the  underlying  floor. 

While  this  went  on,  Fabian  had  absorbed 
himself  in  Alicia.  She  had  let  her  form 
drop  into  a  chair,  and  sat  with  gaze  riveted 
on  the  carpet.  It  was  carpet  of  a  light  pearl 
color,  and  the  whole  apartment  was  so 
bright-lit  that  almost  any  meagre  speck 
could  have  been  discerned  there. 

Fabian  drew  near  to  her.  He  felt  as  if  his 
heart  stood  still,  while  he  leaned  down  a 
little  and  prepared  to  murmur  a  few  words 
in  her  ear.  But  just  then  Mrs.  Atterbury 
discontinued  her  search  and  whisked  sharply 
about,  facing  them  both. 

"Oh,  if  it's  gone  it's  gone,"  she  said,  with 
troublous  and  petulant  accent.  Her  eyes 
met  Fabian's.  "I'm  so  certain  that  I  saw 
it  just  now,"  she  continued.  "I — 

And  at  this  point  Fabian  took  several  steps 
toward  her,  with  a  quiet  gesture  that  had 
in  it  the  force  of  veto. 

"I  have  not  contradicted  you,"  he  said, 
"but  I  must  do  so  now.  You  state  that  you 
are  sure  you  saw  no  empty  place  yonder — 


210  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

that  you  saw  a  certain  gem  where  the  gap  is 
now.  Suppose  I  tell  you  that  you're  quite 
wrong." 

"Wrong?"  repeated  Mrs.  Atterbury,  with 
a  dazed  mien. 

*  'Yes, ' '  he  proceeded.  ' ' 1 'noticed  that  same 
empty  interval  a  second  or  two  after  you  had 
opened  the  cabinet." 

Here  Alicia  lifted  her  head. 

"  You  noticed  it?"  fell  from  Mrs.  Atter- 
bury. "Why,  how  strange!  But  no;  no! 
I'm  positive — 

"Ah,  my  dear  lady,"  broke  in  Fabian, 
"I  am  positive  as  well."  He  gave  a  slight 
laugh,  and  she  to  whom  he  spoke  started  at 
it.  "I've  no  wish  to  act  uncivilly — you  may 
or  may  not  have  taken  the  initiative  there. 
But  I  repeat  to  you  that  I  saw  the  void 
place  which  you  declare  was  filled.  Yes,  I 
saw  it,"  he  added,  more  slowly,  and  with 
profound  apparent  meaning. 

Silence  followed.  In  the  distance,  from 
behind  the  closed  door,  sounded  a  babble  of 
voices.  Then  the  plaintive  wail  of  a  violin 
pierced  these  and  silenced  them. 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  211 

"Albertini  is  beginning,"  said  Mrs.  Atter- 
bury,  with  flurried  vehemence.  "And  that 
Lewsy  of  mine  is  so  apt  to  botch  things  when 
he  plays  master  of  ceremonies."  At  once 
she  relocked  the  cabinet,  slipped  its  key 
into  her  j>ocket,  and  hastened  toward  the 
door.  There  she  remained  motionless  for  a 
few  seconds,  and  as  if  absorbed  in  meditation. 
"  Well,"  she  suddenly  burst  forth  to  Fabian, 
"I  suppose  you  are  right.  You  must  be,  of 
course.  I  showed  the  collection  this  morn- 
ing to  a  little  party  of  friends,  and  perhaps 
I  confuse,  in  spite  of  myself,  then  with  now. 
But  that  doesn'  t  make  the  loss  any  less  mys- 
terious a  one,  does  it?  And  .  .  .  I — I  do  hope 
you'll  both  excuse  me  if,  without  intention, 
I  have  said  the  least  thing  that  might  have 
caused  you  .  .  .  annoyance." 

Fabian  watched  her  look  wander  to  Alicia  as 
she  spoke  these  apologetic  words.  He  knew 
Adeia  Atterbury  so  well  that  he  could  now 
detect  an  unfamiliar  spark  in  her  eyes  and 
note  in  her  voice  a  complete  lack  of  the  truly 
repentant  ring. 

Alicia  had  risen,  and  before  Fabian  could 


212  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

speak  she  said,  in  her  dulcet  voice  and  with 
entire  repose: 

"How  could  you  have  caused  us  annoy- 
ance, my  dear  Mrs.  Atterbury?  I  saw  that 
empty  place,  too,  and  we  are  both  so  sorry 
for  you.  .  .  Are  we  not?"  and  she  turned  to 
Fabian. 

"Thanks,"  Mrs.  Atterbury  replied.  The 
word  was  mechanic  and  cold  to  the  ears  of 
her  friend,  whatever  Alicia's  may  have  found 
it.  "I'll  see  you  again  quite  soon,  I  hope," 
she  continued,  in  a  voice  of  heartier  inflec- 
tion. And  then  she  disappeared,  leaving  the 
door  ajar. 

Fabian  and  Alicia  were  left  alone  together. 
He  went  toward  the  door  and  caught  hold 
of  its  knob.  As  he  reclosed  the  door,  Alicia 
exclaimed:  "Why,  what  are  you  doing? 
Shall  we  not  go  out  and  hear  the  music?" 

Fabian  stared  into  her  face,  feeling  his 
lips  twitch  a  little.  His  hand  fell  from  the 
knob.  He  seemed  to  hear  within  his  brain 
the  rapid  and  muffled  beatings  of  his  own 
heart. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me?"  lie 
asked. 


FABIAK    DIMITEY.  213 

*'I?"  murmured  Alicia.  She  returned  his 
gaze,  with  surprise  and  perhaps  a  little  touch 
of  arrogance.  Then  she  slightly  lifted  her 
shoulders,  and  added:  "  No." 

"In  that  case,"  answered  Fabian,  "I 
have  something  which  I  must  say  to  you" 

"  What  is  it?"  she  asked.  He  had  drawn 
quite  close  to  her,  and  a  sparkle  was  in  his 
eyes  that  seemed  as  if  wrath  had  kindled  it 
there. 


214  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 


XL 

The  way  in  which  she  faced  him  almost 
made  Fabian  recoil ;  she  appeared  so  firmly 
self-possessed. 

"  I  wished  to  tell  you —    "  he  began. 

' '  Of  what?' '  she  inquired,  with  a  high, 
scornful  note  in  her  sweet  voice.  "  Of  that 
woman's  ill-breeding?  I  felt  it,  and  no  doubt 
you  did  as  well.  But  probably  she  did  not 
mean  real  rudeness.  Her  apology,  I  suppose, 
must  be  taken  for  what  it  is  worth.  .  .  Let 
us  go  into  the  drawing-rooms  and  hear  the 
violinist.  I  am  so  fond  of  that  sort  of  music 
when  it  is  good,  and  even  at  this  distance 
his  sounds  as  if  it  were  excellent." 

Fabian  gnawed  his  lip.  Twenty  differ- 
ent phrases  occurred  to  him,  but  he  could 
not  put  one  of  them  into  speech.  Presently 
he  said,  with  a  repression  of  manner  that  he 
felt  she  must  observe  and  weigh,  knowing 
him  as  well  as  she  did: 

"Very  well;  I  will  accompany  you.     He 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  215 

moved  toward  the  door,  she  following.  On 
a  sudden  he  reeled,  like  a  man  whose  brain 
has  been  beset  by  a  blood-rush. 

"  You're  ill!"  cried  Alicia,  springing 
toward  him  and  laying  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"No,"  he  replied.  Immediately  he  had 
become  like  his  usual  self:  He  opened  the 
door  and  they  went  out  together.  As  Alicia 
crossed  the  threshold  he  heard  her  say: 

"I  don't  think  I'll  care  to  stop  much 
longer.  Our  carriage  was  ordered  for  eleven, 
wasn'  t  it?' ' 

"Yes." 

"It's  nearly  that  now,  is  it  not?" 

"It's  after  eleven." 

"Then  we'll  go  in  about  five  minutes,  if 
you  don't  object.  Do  you?" 

"Not  at  all." 

The  playing  of  Signer  Albertini  was  fine, 
and  it  lasted  (including  the  rapturous  encore 
which  he  received)  not  more  than  six  or 
seven  minutes  in  all.  He  was  an  artist  com- 
pounded of  a  certain  laziness  and  a  certain 
ambition.  The  result  caused  him  to  measure, 
at  amateur  performances,  the  patience  of  his 


216  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

auditors,  and  alwaj^s  to  leave  it  discreetly 
within  the  margin  of  weariness.  As  his 
last  strains  died  away,  Alicia  turned  to 
Fabian  and  quietly  said: 

"Let  us  go  now.  You  see,  Mrs.  Atter- 
bury  is  busy  in  conversation  over  yonder. 
Do  not  let  us  disturb  her  with  our  good- 
nights.  Come."  .  .  . 

They  had  been  several  minutes  in  the  car- 
riage which  drove  them  home,  before  the 
silence  between  them  was  broken.  Then 
Fabian  broke  it. 

"You  thought  Mrs.  Atterbury  rude?"  he 
began. 

"Yes;  horridly  .  .  didn't  you?" 

"She  missed  one  of  her  cameos." 

"  True.  But  you  told  her "  And  then 

Alicia  ceased  to  speak.  They  sat  opposite 
each  other,  but  could  not  see  one  another's 
faces. 

"  I  told  her  that  she  had  made  a  blunder," 
Fabian  said. 

"  In  so  many  words — yes." 

"  Was  I  right?"  While  he  put  this  ques- 
tion he  felt  every  nerve  in  his  body  to  be 


FABIAN    DIMITKY.  217 

tensely  strung  as  the  chords  of  some  instru- 
ment which  another  turn  of  the  key  might 
shatter  into  incompetence. 

"Eight?"  came  Alicia's  answer,  with  a 
querulous  ring.  "Why,  you  said  you  saw 
that  one  of  the  gems  was  missing.  How 
could  you  not  have  been  '  right '  if  you  told 
her  that?" 

Fabian  threw  back  his  head  in  the  obscu- 
rity and  sat  thus  with  close-pressed  lips. 

And  now  there  swept  through  the  fibres  of 
his  brain  just  that  change  which  for  a  man 
circumstanced  like  himself  was  perhaps  the 
inevitable  one.  He  found  that  extenuation 
was  dipping  for  him  in  deep  wells,  and  like 
a  drinker  hotly  athirst  he  took  the  proffered 
draughts. 

How,  after  all,  if  he  had  been  tricked  by 
some  mere  cheat  of  eyesight?  Good  heavens, 
had  he  really  seen  Alicia  snatch  that  ame- 
thyst from  the  velvet  shelf?  Suppose  he  had 
been  deluded  by  his  own  senses.  Then  how 
keen  the  insult,  how  monstrous  the  injustice! 

Their  carriage  stopped;  the  drive  had  been 
but  a  short  one.  Fabian  opened  the  door  and 


218  FABIAN    DIMITEY. 

sprang  out.  As  Alicia  gave  him  her  hand 
he  perceived  that  it  was  trembling  terribly. 

"I — I  am  afraid  I  shall  fall,"  came  her 
voice,  feebler  than  he  had  ever  yet  heard  it. 
But  even  then  she  made  the  effort  to  alight, 
and  in  doing  so  literally  fell  into  his  arms. 

He  almost  bore  her  up  the  stoop.  It  soon 
was  plain  that  she  had  nearly  lost  conscious- 
ness. Eninger,  having  heard  the  carriage 
stop,  met  them  on  the  threshold. 

Alicia's  fainting  state  was  a  sharp  shock 
to  him.  He  seized  her  from  the  embrace  of 
Fabian  with  gestures  unconsciously  austere. 
To  lay  her  on  a  sofa  in  the  near  drawing- 
room  was  to  discover  that  she  had  really 
swooned. 

"What  has  caused  this?"  the  husband 
questioned  of  his  friend,  with  an  imperious- 
ness  which  doubtless  he  himself  did  not 
realize. 

"I  can  not  say,"  replied  Fabian.  "  I  had 
no  idea  she  was  ill  until  the  carriage  stopped 
—until  I  myself  had  left  it." 

Eninger  was  too  good  a  physician  not 
quickly  to  decide  that  the  attack  missed 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  219 

being  serious.  Before  there  was  time  to 
apply  any  restorative,  Alicia  unclosed  her 
eyes.  She  did  so  with  a  look  of  affright,  a 
hysterical  scream,  and  a  burst  of  tears. 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  Eninger  to  Fabian. 
"  You  had  best  leave  us  here  together.  I'll 
do  what  I  can  to  quiet  her." 

Speaking  thus,  he  momentarily  turned  his 
back  upon  his  wife.  Whatever  she  may  now 
have  effected  in  the  way  of  a.  soothing  dis- 
covery, her  demeanor  swiftly  became  calm. 
As  Fabian  quitted  the  room,  she  rose  from 
the  sofa. 

"I  think  I  will  go  up-stairs,  Ray,"  she 
said.  "I'll  ring  for  Margaret  to  undress 
me." 

"My  darling,"  he  softly  cried,  wrapping 
his  arms  about  her;  "how  did  it  happen?" 

"I  don't  know  .  .  it  came  like  a  flash." 

"You  had  not  been  dancing?" 

"No." 

"  You  were  talking  there  in  the  carriage 
with  Fabian?" 

"Yes,  Ray.  .  .  Let  me  go  up  at  once,' 
won' t  you  please,  dear?' ' 

"Of  course  .  .  this  instant." 


220  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

The  next  morning,  as  Fabian  came  down  to 
breakfast,  lie  found  Alicia  seated  at  the 
coffee-urn  with  no  change  for  the  worse  on 
her  fresh -tinted  face.  The  Colonel  had  just 
begun  a  tirade  which  Eninger  heard  with  his 
usual  saintly  patience.  It  was  a  propos  of 
a  wedding-invitation  which  had  just  been 
courteously  sent  him  by  the  mother  of  the 
prospective  bride,  a  certain  Mrs.  Van  Wag- 
enen,  whom  he  had  met  once  or  twice  under 
his  son-in-law's  roof. 

"So  her  daughter's  going  to  marry  the 
Honorable  Cecil  Verrinder,  is  she  —  the 
younger  son  of  Lord  Brecknock?  Bless  my 
soul,  it' s  an  outrage  the  way  these  American 
girls  fly  at  the  throats  of  our  English  boys!" 

"It  may  be  the  other  way,"  hazarded 
Eninger  carelessly,  while  buttering  a  bit  of 
toast.  ' '  Miss  Eva  Van  Wagenen  is  worth  one 
million  of  money  and  she's  the  heiress  to 
another." 

"Ah,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  an  unholy 
sourness  on  his  lean  visage.  ' '  Quite  so,  my 
dear  Ray.  The  Honorable  Cecil  sells  his  ped- 
igree and  position.  Miss  Van  ...  I  never 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  221 

can  either  recollect  or  pronounce  half  your 
jaw-breaking  Knickerbocker  names  . ..  .  Miss 
Van  Hodgepodge  completes  her  pretty  bar- 
gain and  gets  a  social  grip  on  the  Prince  of 
Wales1  s  coat-tails  forever  and  a  day.  How 
nobly  American!  How  magnificently  repub- 
lican! Who  dares  to  call  democracy  a  failure? 
'Gad,  not  I;  I'm  too  afraid  of  having  a  head 
put  on  me  by  some  of  these  mighty  Western 
patriots.  Isn't  that  the  right  phrase  for  one 
to  use,  by  the  way  .  .  .  a  head  put  on  one?" 
And  the  Colonel  slipped  his  little  silver  egg- 
spoon  into  the  yellow  heart  of  his  already 
decapitated  egg. 

Fabian  just  then  took  his  seat  at  the  table, 
and  Alicia,  with  an  evident  desire  to  miti- 
gate the  awkward  pause  (although  her  voice 
did  not  seem  to  the  new-comer  by  any  means 
her  native  and  authentic  one)  here  suavely 
observed: 

"Oh,  well,  father,  you'll  go  and  see  Miss 
Van  Wagenen  internationally  married,  I 
hope,  notwithstanding  your  dislike  of  his 
bride's  cold-blooded  creeds." 

"Spare  poor  Eva,"   said    Eninger,   with 


222  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

gentle  protest.  ' '  I  knew  her  in  pina- 
fores. I  dare  say  she's  most  genuinely  in 
love." 

This  gave  the  Colonel  another  opportunity 
of  being  acrid;  but  all  his  three  auditors 
were  already  resigned  to  the  fact  that  a  ces- 
sation of  his  bronchitis  predetermined  an 
unpleasant  breakfast-table. 

Nobody  appeared  specially  to  remark  his 
new  outbursts  of  airy  venom.  .  .  Fabian, 
this  morning,  was  unwontedly  speechless, 
though  often  he  had  his  fits  of  silence — 
always  of  a  sort,  though,  which  somehow 
implied  his  quenchless  amiability. 

Near  the  door  of  his.  office  Eninger  turned 
and  saw  his  wife.  "You're  truly  feeling 
brighter?"  he  asked,  and  with  a  swift  little 
swerve  of  the  hand  his  fingers  were  on  her 
pulse.  She  waited  compliantly,  for  a  few 
seconds;  and  then  he  said:  "You've  taken 
that  medicine  I  gave  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Well;  remember  the  time  for  taking  it. 
You  don't  forget?  No?  I  wouldn't  go  out 
for  three  or  four  hours." 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  223 

"But  you're  going  out  soon,  I  suppose." 
And  she  touched  his  hair  caressingly. 

"Yes.  .  .  But  I'll  see  you  at  lunch- 
eon." 

She  suddenly  looked  about  her,  as  if  to 
make  sure  that  the  hall  in  which  they  stood 
was  quite  empty.  Then  she  kissed  him  on  the 
lips.  Eninger  did  not  like  the  kiss,  deeply 
as  he  adored  his  wife.  Her  lips  felt  too 
feverish.  .  . 

Going  alone,  a  little  later,  into  his  office, 
he  was  soon  joined  by  Fabian. 

"Do  you  think  she  is  unwell?"  asked 
the  latter,  standing  at  his  friend's  side  while 
Eninger  sat  before  his  desk. 

"No.  .  .  no,"  replied  Alicia's  husband. 
But  he  rose  with  a  vague  show  of  anxiety  the 
next  instant.  Abruptly  he  grasped  Fabian's 
hand. 

"My  dear  boy!"  he  said  .  .  and  then 
he  paused. 

"Well?"  responded  Fabian. 

Eninger  laughed  in  a  dashed  way. 

"I  was  a  little  brusque  with  you  last 
night,  was  I  not?  I  mean,  when  she  fainted 

15 


224  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

like  that.  Did  you  notice  it?  Forgive  me 
if  you  did." 

"  Oh,  readily,  Kay.  It  was  nothing.  I — I 
was  worried  about  her." 

"You're  not  worried  now?" 

"  No  .  .  yes." 

"  Yes?" 

UI  don't  see  why  her  pulse  nutters  so. 
Her  heart  is  as  sound  as  a  dollar.  .  .  Well, 
we  doctors  are  the  most  empirical  lot;  what 
do  wie  really  know?  Are  you  going  for  a 
walk?  I  shall  go  for  a  professional  one  in  a 
few  minutes.  ..." 

The  first  stopping-place  Eninger  made  was 
at  Mrs.  Westerveldt' s.  He  had  not  seen 
her  since  the  evening  of  the  dinner  in  his 
own  house,  when  she  had  appeared  as  the 
single  guest.  He  knew  that  she  had  expected 
him  quite  a  while  ago.  She  received  him 
with  one  of  her  smiles,  vague,  characteristic; 
he  had  not  yet  just  made  up  his  mind  which 
one  it  was  when  she  had  motioned  him  into 
a  seat  and  sank  with  feather-like  pliancy 
into  another. 

They  talked  for  a  while  about  her  health, 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  225 

until  the  subject  became  to  Eninger  ludi- 
crous, and  he  forbore  queries.  He  said  a 
few  things  (rather  aimless  things,  as  he 
believed  them)  and  then  his  patient  some- 
what pointedly  inquired: 

"And  so  your  wife  has  been  ill?  That  is 
too  bad.  And  she  got  her  trouble  at  the 
Atterburys'?  Well,  there's  no  vast  matter 
for  surprise." 

"How  you  hate  your  stout  little  kins- 
woman." 

She  took  no  notice  of  this  observation. 
"  It  was  after  driving  home  in  the  carriage 
with  Mr.  Dimitry?  How  unfortunate!" 

"Unfortunate;!"  Eninger  repeated. 

' '  Oh,  yes.  I  mean,  that  it  should  have  hap- 
pened there."  He  understood  her  smile, 
now,  and  disliked  it;  he  had  seen  it  before. 
"And  your  Fabian  .  .  your  dear  friend  .  . 
he  was  the  soul  of  devotion,  naturally." 

Eninger  ground  his  teeth,  and  the  anger 
flew  redly  to  his  cheeks.  He  tried  to  be 
tranquil,  with  some  answer  murderously 
ironic,  and  failed. 

"I  thought  you  disliked  my  wife,"  he 


226  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

said,  ' '  and  now  I  perceive  that  you  wish  to 
cast  insult  on  her." 

Those  few  ireful  words  had  a  knell  in  them 
for  the  woman  who  listened.  They  told  her 
how  this  man  loved  his  wife — how  cold  he 
was  to  her,  .Gertrude  Westerveldt,  and  how 
he  must  so  remain,  as  regarded  all  future 
powers  of  passion.  They  struck  on  her 
strange  soul  with  the  force  of  a  tenfold  slur. 
She  at  once  spoke. 

"I've  cast  no  insult  upon  her,"  she  said. 
"  I  should  not  know  how  to  do  so  if  I  tried. 
What  would  be  insult  to  a  woman  like  that?' ' 
She  rose,  the  next  instant.  "Come,  now," 
she  said,  "tell  me  how  it  happened  that  you 
ever  married  such  a  creature?" 

Her  words  appalled  Eninger.  He  sprang 
erect,  with  clenched  hands.  "How  dare 
you?"  he  exclaimed. 

'  *  I  dare  do  much, ' '  came  the  answer,  ' '  when 
I  see  a  man  of  your  mind  and  strength  so 
duped  and  fooled." 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  "you  are  hideously  cruel. 
This  is  the  merest  vulgar  hate,  spite,  bru- 
tality. I  will  not  listen  to  another  word 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  227 

from  you.     I  should  despise  myself  if    I 
did." 

She  had  almost  lost  her  head — she  who  had 
kept  it  so  coolly  thus  far  throughout  her 
lifetime.  His  loyalty  was  like  a  venomed 
barb  to  her.  The  thought  seemed  trebly 
odious  that  he  should  taunt  her  with  this 
loyalty  when  its  object  was  so  despicable. 
For  since  a  certain  evening  there  had  been 
nothing  too  bad  that  she  could  mentally  call 
Alicia.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  that 
Eninger's  wife  was  the  incarnation  of  all 
human  grossness.  This  conclusion  was  in 
part  due  to  her  jealousy  and  in  part  to  her 
late  experience.  "A  thief,  a  thief,"  kept 
now  ringing  through  her  brain,  as  it  had 
rung  for  many  a  past  hour.  ' '  A  thief  for 
him,  for  Fabian  Dimitry,  her  old  lover, 
whom  she  has  got  into  the  home  of  her 
husband,"  rang  there  also,  with  haunting 
and  horrible  cadence.  She  had  meant  to  tell 
Eninger  just  what  she  believed  as  certainty 
regarding  his  wife.  But  now  his  sudden 
declaration  of  departure  stirred  her  with  a 
harsh  dismay. 


228  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

Her  lips  felt  dry  and  hard  as  she  sought 
to  use  them.  Eninger  was  at  the  threshold 
of  her  room  when  she  exclaimed: 

"  You  speak  of  despising  yourseflf.  De- 
spise lier!" 

Eninger  raised  his  hand  and  shook  it 
toward  the  speaker  with  an  expression  of 
blended  indignation  and  pain.  Then  he 
passed  from  the  room. 

Gertrude  Westerveldt  drooped  her  head 
and  brooded,  with  the  sense  of  a  poignard 
fleshed  and  rusting  in  her  bosom. 

"How  he  loves  that  wretch!"  she  thought. 
'  'And  I  did  not  tell  him.  I  meant  to  tell  him, 
but  I  did  not.  .  .  She  is  a  thief,  but  why? 
Can  it  be  for  Mmf  Dimitry  has  always 
had  money,  and  that  legacy  just  left  him 
adds  to  it.  .  .  Ah,  well,  she  wants  her 
gains  for  herself.  A  woman  who  would  do 
the  thing  I  saw  her  do— what  vile  purpose 
may  not  sway  her?" 

Alone,  sitting  there  in  her  home  of  wealth 
and  ease,  this  proud  creature  whom  no  one 
had  ever  seen  shed  a  tear,  now  bent  her  head 
with  an  instinctive  desire  to  hide  the  scalding 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  229 

drops  that  burnt  her  cheeks  while  they  fell. 
But  the  tears  had  scarcely  gushed  from  a 
human  source.  Themheat  had  in  it  the  sav- 
agery of  defeated  passion. 

Fabian  went  out  into  the  streets  almost 
immediately  after  breakfast.  The  day  was 
chill  but  not  inclement.  He  wandered  up 
town  and  down  town^  He  was  bitterly  ill 
at  ease.  Passing  the  Academic,  he  saw  that 
a  fresh  bill  was  announced  for  that  evening. 
Surprised  at  first,  he  remembered  that  he  had 
seen  in  some  newspaper  the  statement  that  a 
new  play  would  be  produced  at  this  theatre 
— an  adaptation  from  the  French  by  Mr. 
Belsize — owing  to  the  failure  of  a  previous 
production.  He  bought  an  orchestra-seat  at 
the  box-office  of  the  Academic  and  resolved 
that  he  would  not  go  back  to  Forty-Second 
Street  until  bed-time.  He  went  to  see  an 
artist  who  was  a  friend  of  his,  and  sat  for 
two  hours  in  a  studio  where  several  un- 
sold and  unsalable  masterpieces  gleamed  as 
rebukes  to  American  taste  and  patriotism. 
The  artist  was  a  genius,  but  neither  explosive 


230  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

nor  misanthropic.  He  painted  sturdily  and 
did  not  jar  his  nerves  by  shrieks  against  his 
land  and  time.  Fabian  left  him  with  a  sense 
that  there  were  many  other  spirits  in  the 
world  as  sorely  lashed  by  fate  as  himself. 
It  was  not  a  new  realization,  but  it  somehow 
came  to  him,  just  now,  fraught  with  a  novel 
comfort. 

After  that  he  lunched  frugally  somewhere, 
with  a  languid  appetite,  and  took  another 
long  walk,  which  ended  at  the  door  of  Mrs. 
Atterbury. 

She  received  him  in  bonnet  and  street- 
dress.  ' '  I  had  feared  you  were  going  abroad 
this  pleasant  day,  or  had  already  gone,"  he 
said,  while  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  No;  I'm  still  at  home,  as  you  see.  That 
is,  I'm  at  home  to  you.  There's  hardly 
anyone  else  whom  I  would  have  seen  just 
now." 

"That's  both  frank  and  genial." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  want  it  to  be  genial." 

"  You're  in  a  bad  humor?" 

"Horribly." 

"I  suppose  it  has  a  definite  cause,"  said 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  231 

Fabian,  slapping  one  knee  with  the  limp 
fingers  of  his  glove  and  keeping  his  look 
lowered  while  he  did  so. 

Mrs.  Atterbury's  eyes  were  meanwhile 
fixed  intently  on  his  face.  "Can't  you 
guess  the  cause?"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
was  vibrant  as  if  with  hidden  feeling. 

"The  loss  of  that  precious  intaglio?" 
These  words  Fabian  spoke  almost  below  his 
breath,  while  still  not  lifting  his  look. 

"Yes  and  no,"  she  answered,  and  her 
words  now  seemed  to  wear  edges  like  a 
knife's  and  to  cut  the  air  of  the  room.  "The 
mere  loss  of  the  seal  was  one  thing;  how  its 
loss  occurred  was  another." 

Fabian  did  lift  his  look,  then.  "You 
haven't  solved  the  mystery?"  he  asked. 

"No — if  it  is  one." 

"Your  answer  is  puzzling.  Either  there 
is  a  mystery  or  there  is  not." 

She  replied  to  him  in  tones  more  meas- 
ured. "The  statement  you  made,  if  made 
truthfully,  of  course  creates  a  very  dense 
mystery  indeed." 

He    fired,   at   this,   as    she  had   perhaps 


232  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

expected  him  to  do.  "  So  you  suspect  me  of 
falsehood?"  he  demanded.  Then,  as  she 
offered  no  response,  he  continued:  "I  doubt 
if  there's  a  servant  in  your  house  who 
doesn't  know  just  where  the  key  of  that 
cabinet  is  kept." 

A  smile,  that  seemed  to  him  full  of  irony, 
flitted  over  her  face.  "  Oh,  good  heavens!" 
she  broke  out,  with  what  some  people  would 
have  called  her  most  vulgar  manner  but 
which  was  to  him .  simply  her  most  sincere 
one,  "you're  a  fine  dramatist,,  as  I've  told 
you  many  a  time,  but  you're  a  very  bad 
actor.  I  see  it  now;  I  wasn't  ever  sure  of  it 
before,  because  I've  only  known  you  when 
you  were  yourself." 

He  kept  silent  for  a  few  seconds,  with  one 
foot  making  rapid  little  motions  and  both 
hands  nervously  pulling  at  the  heavy  fringe 
of  a  table-cloth  close  beside  him.  "Do  you 
know,"  he  presently  began,  "that  you're 
accusing  me  of  .  .of  hypocrisy?' '  (His  eyes 
avoided  hers,  and  his  speech  grew  more 
hesitant  as  he  went  on.)  "Bo  you  realize 
that  you're — you're  placing  me  in  .  .  well, 
in  a  position  that  .  .  that  is  quite  horrible?' ' 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  233 

"I  don't  place  you  in ft.  You  place  your- 
self in  it." 

"How?  how?"  he  swiftly  questioned,  and 
caught  up  the  gloves  which  he  had  thrown 
aside,  almost  seeming  to  tear  them  between 
his  working  fingers.  "Don't  you  think  I 
told  you  the  truth  last  night  when  I  said  .  . 
what  .  .  I  sakli" 

"No.  You've  hit  the  nail  on  the  head 
precisely.  I  don't  think  you  did  tell  the 
truth.  I  think  you  tried  to  — 

She  paused  there,  and  a  long,  steadfast 
glance  was  exchanged  between  them. 

Fabian  put  up  one  hand  warningly;  he  had 
grown  pale  to  the  lips.  "Be  careful,"  he 
said. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  tossed 
her  head.  "  My  servants  didn't  know  where 
that  key  was;  I'll  swear  they  didn't.  .  .  I've 
been  brooding  over  this  whole  matter.  I 
can't  help  feeling  as  I  do.  .  .  Ah,  do  you 
know  wliy?"  she  went  on,  with  a  wrath  that 
drew  down  the  lines  of  her  mouth  and 
clouded  her  brows.  "The  reason  is  this: 
reflection  has  convinced  me  that  I  did  see 


234  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

the  amethyst  there  when  I  first  opened 
that  cabinet.  I'm  fond  of  that  one  stone, 
and  somehow  my  eyes  always  light  on  it 
first  when  I  show  the  collection.  I've  really 
loved  it;  only  the  other  day  I  asked  Lewsy 
to  let  me  wear  it  for  a  pendant  on  my  dia- 
mond necklace.  /  saw  it,  do  you  under- 
stand." She  leaned  to  ward 'him  fiercely, 
and  smote  the  table  with  one  plump,  clenched 
hand.  "If  there's  a  man  on  God's  earth, 
Fabian  Dimitry,  whose  word  I'd  believe 
through  thick  and  thin,  that  man  is  you. 
But  even  such  a  man  as  you  will  lie  for  a 
woman  he's  gone  mad  about." 

Fabian  rose;  he  was  trembling.  "You 
believe  I  lied  last  night?"  he  asked. 

"To  shield  her — yes." 

"To  .  .  shield  her  .  .  from  what?" 

"The  charge  of  theft."  And  then  Mrs. 
Atterbury  rose  too. 

"You  must  be  mad,"  he  said,  his  tones 
husky  and  forced.  "  Theft?  What  conceiv- 
able motive  could  that  lovely  and  refined 
creature  have  had  in  taking  the  stone?" 

"Never  mind  her  motive!"  shot  from  his 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  235 

hearer.  "Still,  she's  grown  poor,  lately — or 
her  husband  has.  It' s  frightful  to  say  such 
words  as  these.  I've  never  breathed  a  syl- 
lable of  what  I'm  now  saying.  I've  kept 
the  least  hint  of  it  from  Lewsy.  I  expected, 
you  here  to-day.  Listen:  this  bonnet  and 
walking-suit  are  both  a  sham.  I'd  lots  of 
things  to  do,  but  I  dare  say  I'd  have  staid  in 
till  dark,  because  when  you  come  to  me  after- 
noon is  usually  your  time.  You  did  come, 
and  you  came  to  try  and  throw  new  dust  in 
my  eyes.  Yes  .  .  it's  just  that.  You  saw 
Tier  take  the  amethyst.  Oh,  you'll  deny  it. 
I'm  prepared  to  hear  you  deny  it.  You 
worship  her,  though  you  gave  her  up  over 
there  in  London.  Now  you're  at  her  feet. 
Mind,  I  don't  breathe  a  ghost  of  a  charge 
against  your  honor.  That  I  know  to  be 
stainless— unstainable.  But  you're  so  much 
her  slave  that  with  all  your  truth  and  nobil- 
ity you'd  go  straight  into  the  jaws  of  hell  if 
she  called  you  there." 

Dead  silence  now  ensued  between  the 
speakers.  Fabian's  face  was  like  marble. 
He  walked  toward  the  door,  stopping  within 
a  slight  distance  of  it. 


236  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"You  are  outrageous,"  lie  said,  very  col- 
lectedly. "I  did  not  lie  to  you.  I  spoke 
the  absolute  truth.  Alicia  Eninger  is  the 
wife  of  my  dearest  friend.  You  heap  infamy 
upon  her,  and  expect  me  to  endure  such  ter- 
rible charges.  I've  heard  them  calmly.  If 
you  were  a  man,  I'd  call  you  to  account  for 
them.  You're  a  woman,  and  so  I  shall  try 
to  pity  you." 

He  felt  dizzy  after  he  had  got  from  the 
house  into  the  street.  He  had  never  dreamed 
it  possible  that  he  could  be  called  upon  to 
defend  Alicia  in  this  fashion,  whatever  idea 
he  might  have  had  that  inherited  madness 
in  her  would  take  quaint  and  repugnant 
forms.  But  his  recent  defense  now  seemed 
to  him  clad  with  justice.  Why  not?  He 
had  never  seen  her  really  commit  this  act, 
nor  had  Mrs.  Atterbury,  either.  He  had 
lied  to  blunt  the  suspicions  formed  and  cher- 
ished against  her,  and  in  all  his  life  he  could 
not  remember  having  ever  deliberately  lied 
until  now.  But  conscience  did  not  smite 
him.  He  felt  a  deep  resentment  toward  the 
woman  he  had  just  left,  and  an  impulse  to 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  237 

go  up  among  the  house-tops  and  cry  from 
them  ' '  She  is  innocent,  she  is  taintlessly 
innocent." 


238  FABIAN    DIMITKY. 


XII. 

He  did  not  return  home,  that  evening, 
until  he  had  sat  out  the  new  play  at  the 
Academic,  dining  beforehand  in  the  restau- 
rant of  a  hotel  not  far  away.  The  theatre 
seldom  wearied  him,  even  though  the  play 
was  fatally  dull.  But  now,  for  almost  the 
only  time  in  his  experience,  he  found  it  hard 
to  fix  attention  upon  characters  and  plot. 
Then,  during  the  second  act,  he  felt  himself 
really  attrape.  The  performance  was  very 
disciplined  and  intelligent.  Besides,  he  be- 
gan to  recognize  the  play  as  something  he 
had  once  seen  in  Paris.  Then,  a  little  later, 
however,  he  became  confused  on  this  point. 
Had  he  really  seen  the  play,  after  all?  And 
at  last  the  truth  broke  upon  him:  Belsize  had 
been  pottering  and  fussing  with  it.  The 
"immorality"  had  been  carefully  carved 
out  and  something  substituted  in  the  result- 
ant void.  The  something  struck  him  as 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  239 

horribly  inharmonious  with  the  original 
play.  It  produced  an  effect  of  general  twist 
and  distortion  which  made  him  wonder  how 
the  public  could  deal  in  such  copious  plaudits 
and  fail  to  see  that  they  were  bestowed  upon 
material  which  was  altogether  the  merest 
harlequinade  of  life.  He  now  recollected  a 
strong  situation  in  the  fourth  and  final 
act,  and  when  the  curtain  had  fallen  upon 
the  third  he  wondered  what  hocus-pocus  of 
"adaptation"  Belsize  had  used  with  respect 
to  that  particular  scene.  Surely  if  pre- 
vious passages  had  been  deemed  offensive, 
this  must  have  proved  still  more  so.  But  in 
the  French  work,  however,  it  had  seemed 
vitally  consequential.  Even  to-night  the 
"  way  out"  looked  hardly  practicable  unless 
it  were  used.  Would  it  be  used? 

The  curtain  rose  on  the  fourth  act,  and 
Fabian  soon  perceived  that  it  had  not  been 
used.  And  gradually  he  began  to  see  that  a 
"  way  out"  had  been  discovered  which  bore 
no  relation  to  the  real  author's  treatment. 
And  yet  this  pulling  of  lines,  this  manipula- 
tion of  events,  what  were  they  portending? 

»  10 


240  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

Suddenly  the  full  truth  dawned  on  Fabian. 
Belsize  had  taken  from  his  own  play  its  one 
most  potent  and  dramatic  incident.  There 
it  was,  boldly,  insolently  stolen.  There 
could  not  be  the  slightest  doubt.  It  was 
clever  enough,  as  such  knavery  goes,  but  it 
stared  at  him  from  behind  the  footlights 
with  the  cool  bravado  of  an  unblushing 
forgery.  The  text  was  not  his,  and  yet 
many  drifts  both  of  thought  and  phrase, 
wore  birth-marks  that  only  guile  could  have 
disputed. 

The  scene  "went"  with  a  tremendous 
elan.  Its  glittering  little  segment  had  been 
slipped  adroitly  into  the  general  mosaic  and 
shone  thence  as  if  the  lustre  had  been  bor- 
rowed from  no  unrighteous  aid.  Fabian  felt 
the  shock  of  disgust  which  honesty  never 
escapes  when  it  wakes  to  the  fact  of  its  own 
audacious  betrayal.  "And  this  sort  of 
thing,"  he  mused,  as  he  quitted  the  theatre, 
"is  what  meets  the  conscientious  maker  of 
American  plays  when  he  seeks  decent  recog- 
nition. Persons  like  this  unscrupulous  mid- 
dleman, Belsize,  are  those  with  whom  we 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  241 

run  the  chance  of  such  hideous  treach- 
eries." 

If  his  mind  had  been  less  weighted  by 
another  and  sterner  trouble  he  might  have 
sought  Belsize  at  once  and  taxed  him  with 
the  cheap,  oily  fraud  so  lately  compassed. 
But  as  it  was,  he  went  home.  The  house 
was  very  still  and  dark  when  he  entered  it.  He 
sat  for  some  time  brooding  in  his  room  before 
came  the  desire  for  rest.  And  then,  as  he 
began  to  undress,  it  occurred  to  him,  abruptly 
and  even  humorously,  that  he  had  been  losing 
all  remembrance  of  Belsize' s  low  deed.  A 
little  while  ago  it  would  have  been  so  differ- 
ent with  him!  He  would  then  have  thought 
of  bearing  his  wrong  to  Eninger  and  Alicia, 
and  of  receiving  upon  it  their  discussion, 
their  counsel,  their  sympathetic  indignation. 

But  during  the  next  few  days  he  found 
himself  ill-at-ease  in  their  company.  Alicia 
had  fits  of  headache  which  prevented  her  from 
always  appearing  at  meals.  Eninger  was 
unhabitually  tacit  and  reserved,  making  his 
friend  wonder  at  the  cause  of  such  moods  in 
him,  while  feeling  confident  that  he  could 


242  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

not  have  been  assailed  by  any  semblance  of 
his  own  secret  worriment. 

Little  as  Fabian  realized  it,  Eninger  was 
tormenting  himself  with  the  question:  "  Can 
this  man  possibly  merit  the  suspicion  that 
Gertrude  Westerveldt  has  dared  to  foster?" 
His  frame  of  mind  was  not  a  jealous  one. 
Its  uneasiness  came  more  from  a  perverse 
visitation  of  doubt  against  which  his  better 
sense  fought  resolutely,  as  some  intellect  on 
the  verge  of  dementia  might  oppose  halluci- 
nations known  to  be  born  of  bodiless  imps 
and  jack-o'-lanterns. 

No;  he  would  believe  nothing  so  cruel  of 
one  whose  honor  he  had  every  reason  to  hold 
speckless  and  crystal.  More  than  this: 
Fabian  Dimitry  had  become  an  individualism 
best  expressed  to  him  in  terms  of  spirit 
rather  than  flesh.  Such  nobility  was  a  law 
unto  itself,  and  one  no  less  lovely  than  cogent. 
Repeatedly  he  was  on  the  verge  of  grasping 
Fabian's  hand  and  saying  to  him:  "  I  knew 
you  for  years  as  the  perfection  of  probity; 
I  have  known  you  for  a  few  weeks  past  as 
the  ideal  of  generosity;  therefore  it  delights 


FABIAN-    DIMITEY.          v  243 

me  to  choose  you  as  my  chief  confidant  in 
this  matter  which  relates  to  reckless  asper- 
sions against  yourself." 

He  did  not  say  these  words,  or  words  at 
all  like  them;  and  yet  one  evening,  after 
having  been  reticent  through  a  dinner  from 
which  Alicia  was  absent  because  indisposed, 
and  during  which  her  father  had  erected 
porcupine-quills  with  an  especial  fretf ulness, 
he  paused  in  the  hall  beside  his  friend  and 
asked  him  if  he  would  care  to  smoke  for  a 
little  while  in  the  adjacent  "office."  Thither 
they  repaired,  and  seated  themselves  side  by 
side.  But  the  mutual  constraint  was  keenly 
though  indefinitely  felt  until  at  last  Enin- 
ger,  with  sudden  frankness,  broke  forth: 

"Fabian,  what  do  you  think  can  ail  Alicia? 
She's  horribly  depressed." 

"Depressed?"  Fabian  softly  echoed,  try- 
ing not  to  look  as  if  this  irrelevance  had 
caused  him  the  least  inward  start. 

"  Her  trouble  defies  me,"  continued  Enin- 
ger.  "  It  appears  to  be  mental  .  .  and  yet  I 
can't  think  it  serious.  You  know"  (he 
turned  and  looked  his  companion  full  in  the 


244  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

eyes)  "  .  .  you  surely  know  why  any  faint 
sign  of  that  in  her  should  cause  me  sharpest 
dread." 

"I  know,"  Fabian  replied.  Those  two 
brief  little  words  had  a  pregnancy  and  pun- 
gency that  fifty  more  could  not  have  aug- 
mented. 

"The  action  of  her  heart  is  irregular," 
Eninger  went  on,  making  a  smoke-ring  and 
then  bisecting  it  with  a  slant  cut  of  his  cigar. 
"I'm  sure  there's  no  organic  malady,  how- 
ever; it's  purely  functional.  If  I  could  once 
make  up  my  mind  that  the  root  of  the  diffi- 
culty lay  there  .  .  but  I  can't,  as  yet." 

"Why  don't  you  take  her  away?"  asked 
Fabian. 

"  You  mean  to  Europe?" 

"  Yes.  To  Switzerland,  or  better,  the  Aus- 
trian Alps.  Somewhere,  at  least,  let  us  say, 
where  the  air  is  pure  and  bracing  and  she 
can  have  those  two  mighty  means  of  help, 
utter  change  and  utter  rest.  It  might  work 
marvels." 

Eninger  made  a  desperate  kind  of  move- 
ment. "Is  she  really  ill  enough  for  that?" 


FABIAU    DIMITRY.  245 

he  exclaimed.  "  Fabian!  tell  me  just  how 
ill  you  think  she  is!  I  confess  that  I've 
failed  to  find  out.  Perhaps  your  layman's 
eyes  are  keener  than  my  professional  ones." 

Eninger  had  now  risen  from  his  chair;  he 
stood  beside  that  of  Fabian,  with  one  hand 
resting  on  the  shoulder  of  his  friend. 

"I  have  noticed  a  change,"  came  the 
awaited  answer,  though  it  was  not  at  all 
swift  in  coming.  "  But  this  change  has  not 
struck  me  as  a  marked  one.  A  little  delay 
ought  to  work  no  harm." 

"You  mean,"  queried  Eninger,  "a watch- 
ing for  new  symptoms?' ' 

"Yes." 

"And  as  to  calling  in  another  physician?" 

"  If  I  had  the  least  doubt  I  would  do  so." 

"And  yet  you  counsel  delay." 

"Ah,"  said  Fabian,  with  depths  of  earnest- 
ness in  his  liquid  and  shining  look,  "  do  not, 
my  friend,  misunderstand  me.  There  are 
genuine  fears  of  danger  and  there  are  false 
ones.  Try  to  discover  the  true  foundation 
of  yours — whether  it  be  rock  or  sand." 

"It  is  so  hard,"  muttered  Eninger,  "to 
judge  fairly  where  we  love  fondly." 


246  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"Or  where  we  hate  foolishly,"  said 
Fabian,  as  if  to  himself,  and  no  doubt  think- 
ing of  Mrs.  Atterbury. 

"How  is  that?"  asked  Eninger,  with  a 
little  start.  And  then  his  thoughts  drifted 
to  Gertrude  Westerveldt.  * '  Right,  indeed, ' ' 
he  added,  in  another  moment. 

The  anxiety  felt  for  Alicia  by  her  husband 
became  to  Fabian  a  source  of  increasing 
torment  during  the  next  few  hours.  His 
love  had  been  held  in  leash  by  duty,  forti- 
tude, moral  strength,  until  now.  But  now  it 
broke  bonds  and  flooded  his  soul  with  mis- 
ery. She  was  ill  and  he  could  not  be  close 
beside  her,  to  comfort  her.  Eninger,  whom 
she  loved — whom  he  was  certain  that  she 
loved — stood  near  her,  of  course.  It  was  not, 
to  his  high  soul,  a  question  of  whom  she  pre- 
ferred; it  was  a  burning  and  piercing  question 
as  to  the  capacity  of  this  or  that  human  soul 
who  could  help  her  the  more.  All  sorts  of 
ways  in  which  men  and  women  love  have 
been  dissected  and  examined;  this  age  we 
live  in  teems  with  such  disclosures.  But 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  247 

there  is  a  self-abnegating  way,  a  way  as 
divine  as  earthly  intelligence  can  conceive 
of  what  is  divine,  which  analysis,  vivisec- 
tion, realism  has  not  yet  presumed  to  touch. 
These  methods  recoil  from  such  expression, 
afraid  of  it  as  an  untruth,  a  mere  midsum- 
mer madness  jarring  our  mortal  brain  and 
nerves.  But  many  a  modern  annalist  recoils 
before  a  passion  which  through  meagre 
knowledge  of  life  he  conceives  impossible. 
That  kind  of  a  passion  was  Fabian  Dimitry's. 
He  saw  how  self-annihilatingly  he  loved 
Alicia.  His  past  course  had  seemed  to  make 
this  plain;  his  present  summons  (as  if  from 
heights  on  heights  of  infinite  command  and 
exhortation)  made  it  plainer  still.  He  was 
without  all  religious  faith;  like  thousands 
of  other  nineteenth-century  thinkers,  he  was 
deist,  pantheist,  agnostic,  atheist,  all  blended 
into  one.  From  a  certain  point  of  view  he 
did  not  know  what  he  believed;  from  another 
point  of  view  he  knew  too  fatally  well  how 
much,  how  apprehensively  much,  he  disbe- 
lieved. But  the  meaning  of  social  mo- 
rality was  clear  to  him.  He  had  shown  it  in 


248  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

renouncing  Alicia.  The  pulses  of  his  heart — 
every  sturdy  stroke — beat  still  toward  an 
attainment  of  this  one  single  goal:  to  repress 
carnal  ardor  and  stay  the  unflinching  sentinel 
of  his  own  down-trodden  desires.  We  never 
conquer  an  earthly  longing,  we  humans,  but 
something  rises  from  it,  spiritual  in  signifi- 
cance as  the  odor  that  floods  air  when  some 
brute  hoof  smites  a  bed  of  violets.  Fabian 
had,  if  you  please,  this  recompense  of  sacri- 
fice. He  did  not  call  it  spiritual;  he  called 
it  by  no  name  except  one  which  the  ghost- 
worshipers  and  pietists  of  the  world  would 
have  sneered  at  as  material.  Chastity  and 
sublimity  of  love  engendered  it,  and  this 
truth  he  recognized,  realized.  But  he  was 
capable  of  facing  what  so  few  emotional 
spirits  have  ever  had  the  mental  equipoise 
to  confront:  the  loftier  lore  of  existence 
needs  no  ritual  or  hymnal  for  its  confirma- 
tion, being  rooted  in  the  evolution  of  dust 
toward  divinity,  of  grossness  toward  great- 
ness. He  did  not  seek  a  supernatural  reason 
Avhy  he  would  be  willing  to  die  for  the  woman 
he  loved.  The  natural  reason,  shorn  of  fancy- 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  249 

bred  sentiment,  sufficed  him.  He  loved  just  as 
purely  and  deeply  while  admitting  the  ances- 
try of  the  ape.  He  plunged  into  no  shadowy 
conduits  of  tradition  to  verify  his  present 
fealty.  It  was  there,  and  it  had  sprung  from 
the  monstrous  push  and  sweep  of  things,  like 
the  delicate  skeleton  of  a  forest-leaf,  like  the 
huge  anatomy  of  the  mastodon.  His  passion 
had  the  actuality  of  the  green  in  grass,  the 
authenticity  of  the  redness  in  roses,  the 
beauty  of  the  pomp  in  dawns,  the  power  of 
the  horror  in  lightning.  He  accepted  it, 
wishing  but  not  seeking  to  explain  its  ori- 
gin. He  had  conquered  much  in  the  terri- 
tory of  his  love;  self-command  had  swept 
away  this  thicket,  had  forded  that  river. 
But  an  uninvaded  tract  remained.  It  defied 
him.  Residual,  it  was  also  inviolate.  Was 
it  not  holy,  was  it  not  clad  with  a  soft,  yet 
splendid  sanctity  as  well?  Still  worshiping 
the  woman  he  had  loved  first,  last  and  abso- 
lutely, he  longed  to  guard  her,  aid  her,  save 
her,  give  mind,  blood,  bone,  thew,  nerve 
sacrificially  in  her  behalf. 
The  next  day,  as  it  chanced,  was  the  one 


250  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

which  fate  and  society  had  conspired  to 
sanctify  as  that  of  the  Verrinder-Van  Wag- 
enen  wedding.  Fabian  breakfasted  late, 
and  consequently  alone.  He  soon  discovered 
that  Eninger  had  several  patients  who  sought 
consultation  with  him  in  his  office  and  that 
Alicia  was  closeted  upstairs.  Fabian's  night 
had  been  almost  a  sleepless  one,  but  he  now 
breasted  a  raw,  rainy  day  and  went  "down 
town"  to  meet  certain  financial  calls  there. 
Returning  at  about  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, disconcerted  and  a  little  unstrung  by 
the  sordidness  and  clamor  of  Wall  Street, 
he  chanced  to  meet  Alicia  in  the  lower  hall. 
She  was  gayly  and  prettily  dressed,  as  if  for 
some  afternoon  festivity.  She  had  a  slightly 
tired  look  about  the  eyes,  but  her  face 
betrayed  no  signs  of  ill-health. 

"Have  you  forgotten  your  engagement?" 
she  asked,  giving  him  her  hand. 

"  You've  the  advantage  of  me,  I  confess," 
he  returned,  coloring  a  little. 

' '  Don' t  you  remember  that  we  were  to  go 
to  Miss  Van  Wagenen's  wedding  in  one 
another's  company?" 


FABIAN    DIMITEY.  251 

"Is  it  really  to-day?  I'd  quite  forgotten 
about  it." 

But  he  had  only  a  few  changes  of  toilet  to 
make,  and  Alicia  promptly  agreed  that  she 
would  wait  for  him.  The  distance  they  had 
to  walk  was  but  one  or  two  streets.  It  had 
grown  less  inclement,  and  a  powdery  snow- 
fall had  given  place  to  flying  purplish  clouds 
and  winds  that  seemed  to  battle  with  one 
another  like  contending  spirits.  "I'm  glad 
you  feel  strong  enough  to  go,"  Fabian 
said,  as  they  walked  along  with  heads 
bowed  a  little  before  the  hardihood  of  the 
blasts. 

"Thanks,"  she  replied.  "I'm  better  this 
afternoon.  I  feel  really  quite  strong." 

"Then  you  were  weak  yesterday?" 

' '  Horridly.  I  had  moments  when  it  seemed 
as  if  I  could  scarcely  move.  I  didn't  tell 
Ray.  That  is,  when  he  asked  me  how  I  felt, 
I  didn't  tell  him  just  how  forlorn  my  sensa- 
tions were." 

"  Was  that  right?"  returned  Fabian. 
"  Should  you,  not  have  told  him?  Remem- 
ber, he  is  your  physician  besides  being  ..." 


252  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"My  husband?"  she  supplied,  as  he 
paused. 

"Oh,  of  course.  But  I  .  .  well,  I  meant, 
just  then,  that  he  is  more." 

"More?" 

"The  man  you've  grown  to  love  above  all 
others." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  And  then 
she  broke  out,  gently  but  with  fervor: 

"Don't  say  'grown  to  love'  above  all 
others.  He's  my  first  and  only  love.  All 
else  now  seems  phantom-like.  I  thought 
we  had  a  full  talk  on  that  subject,  and  that 
you  understood." 

He  did  not  immediately  answer.  But  after 
a  slight  while  he  said:  "Yes;  you  are  right. 
I  should  have  remembered.  Pardon  me.  Not 
that  I've  ever  forgotten  that  talk— in  which 
you  told  me  of  your  consent  to  have  me  come 
and  live  under  the  same  roof  with  you  .  .  " 

"And  with  Ray,"  she  amended,  compos- 
edly. 

"And  with  Ray,"  he  conceded.  "Not, 
indeed,  that  I  ever  can  forget  it,  though  I 
should  live  a  thousand  years." 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  253 

"  Do  you  mean  that  it  was  .  .  painful?" 

"Painful?"  lie  repeated.  .  .  And  then  he 
said  no  more,  since  they  had  reached  the 
portals  of  the  spacious  Tan  Wagenen  resi- 
dence, where  footmen  were  sentinelled  both 
outside  and  beneath  a  striped  awning  and 
carriages  waited  in  smart,  glossy  cohorts. 

The  drawing-rooms  were  jammed,  and  all 
the  town  was  there.  Young  Mrs.  Verrinder 
looked  radiant  and  riant  in  her  pearls  and 
point-lace,  beside  the  Honorable  Cecil,  her 
newly-created  husband.  For  a  time  Alicia 
and  Fabian  became  separated.  Then,  near 
one  of  the  doorways,  they  met  again,  and 
he  said  to  her  carelessly: 

"  You're  not  going  just  yet,  are  you?" 

"No,"  she  replied.  "Mr.  Tan  Nostrand 
asked  me  to  go  upstairs  and  look  at  the 
presents.  But  an  old  lady  begged  him  to 
get  her  an  ice,  and  we've  been  torn  asunder 
in  consequence." 

"Won't  you  come  up  with  me,  then?"  said 
Fabian;  and  soon  they  were  ascending  the 
staircase  together. 

It  was  a  sumptuous  array  of  bridal  gifts. 


254  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

The  room  in  which  it  had  been  spread  forth 
was  densely  thronged.  Pressing  and  jostling 
were  inevitable.  Alicia  was  unusually  quiet  as 
her  gaze  fell  on  the  various  costly  and  charm- 
ing objects.  Fabian  kept  as  near  to  her  as 
possible,  though  sometimes  they  were  parted. 
During  an  incident  of  the  latter  sort  and 
while  three  or  four  people  had  managed  to 
elbow  and  wedge  their  forms  between  Alicia 
and  himself,  a  sudden  harsh  and  poignant 
thought  entered  Fabian's  head. 

It  made  him  bite  his  lip  and  use  little 
ceremony  in  rejoining  her.  And  then  he 
observed  that  she  had  grown  very  pale. 
"It  may  be  the  heat  of  the  rooms,"  he 
thought.  "  I  won't  ask  her  if  she  is  ill;  that 
might  only  cause  her  to  feel  worse." 

Aloud  he  said  to  her:  "  Had  we  not  bet- 
ter quit  this  close  roomf ' 

"  Do  you  find  it  unpleasant?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.     Do  you?" 

"A  little.  .  .  "  She  turned  to  a  man  who 
had  just  slipped  up  to  her  side  and  spoken 
several  low  words.  He  had  a  smooth  face 
and  a  gentlemanlike  air.  You  could  not 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  255 

have  told  him  from  the  guests,  but  he  was 
not  a  guest.  He  had  been  posted  here  to 
guard  all  this  opulence,  and  he  did  not 
always  mingle,  by  any  means,  with  the  rich 
and  sleek.  He  was  a  fish  that  often  swam 
in  other  waters  than  those  of  elegance  and 
caste. 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  matter,"  Fabian 
heard  Alicia  say,  as  if  with  annoyance,  to 
this  person.  "Did  I  not  tell  you  so  before?" 

"Of  what  matter?"  came  Fabian's  invol- 
untary question.  Just  then  he  perceived 
Mrs.  Westerveldt  and  Mrs.  Atterbury  stand- 
ing together  near  by,  as  though  in  amical 
converse — an  event  fit  to  shake  to  their  roots 
the  especial  cliques  of  which  either  lady  was  a 
member.  They  had  ceased  to  talk,  and  were 
watching  Mrs.  Eninger  and  the  man  who 
had  just  inaudibly  conferred  with  her.  Mrs. 
Atterbury  was  also  watching  Fabian,  whose 
face  betrayed  not  a  little  anxiety.  In  re- 
sponse to  his  inquiry  Alicia  said,  with  a  trem- 
bling voice  and  oddly  excited  manner: 

' '  Never  mind.  Come  down-stairs.  Please 
come  directly." 

17     * 


256  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

Fabian  felt  rooted  to  the  floor.  She  forced 
her  way  out  of  the  room.  The  man  who  had 
spoken  to  her  did  not  follow  her,  but  his 
eyes  met  Fabian's  with  a  look  of  mingled 
perplexity  and  disgust. 

At  least  so  Fabian  read  the  look.  In 
another  instant  he  saw  that  Mrs.  Atterbury 
was  beckoning  to  him.  He  made  an  effort 
and  joined  her,  bowing  to  Mrs.  Westerveldt 
and  herself  with  one  inclusive  salute.  If  he 
had  been  less  perturbed  he  would  have  won- 
dered at  her  daring  to  signal  to  him  like  this 
after  their  recent  stormy  parting. 

The  man  who  had  addressed  Alicia  now 
followed  him. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  this  person  said,  "but 
will  you  please  tell  me  the  name  of  the  lady 
you  just  spoke  with?" 

Fabian  did  not  reply.  A  few  seconds 
passed,  and  then  with  her  hardest  and  clear- 
est tones  Mrs.  Westerveldt  volunteered  to 
say: 

"  The  lady's  name  is  Mrs.  Eninger." 

"Eninger,"  repeated  the  man.  "Thank 
you."  And  he  glided  away. 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  257 

It  seemed  to  Fabian  as  if  the  heart  in  his 
breast  had  turned  to  a  lump  of  ice. 


258  FABIAN    DIMITEY. 


XIII. 

This  meeting  of  Gertrude  Westerveldt  and 
Adela  Atterbury,  the  two  arch -foes,  had  just 
now  a  unique  force  of  significance.  It  was 
one  of  a  series  that  continued  from  year  to 
year;  these  two  ladies,  each  furtively  detest- 
ing and  disapproving  the  other,  always  made 
a  point  of  exchanging  verbal  courtesies  once 
a  season.  The  rest  of  the  time  it  was  a 
punctilious  exchange  of  pasteboard  and  an 
arctic- antarctic  avoidance. 

Fabian  looked  Mrs.  Westerveldt  full  in 
the  eyes  after  she  had  spoken  Alicia' s  name. 
"Do  you  know  who  that  gentleman  is?"  he 
inquired.  He  was  still  uncertain  regarding 
the  custodian  of  the  Van  Wagenen  golconda, 
and  so  used  "gentleman"  as  the  word  in 
best  probable  taste. 

"  "Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Westerveldt,  whom  he 
had  merely  bowed  to  for  years  and  had 
always  gauged  as  frigid  and  small  in  spirit, 


FABIAN    DIMITEY.  259 

with  perhaps  that  intuition  born  of  a  spirit 
warm  and  spacious.  "  Yes,  Mr.  Dimitry,  I 
do  know  him.  I  happened  to  learn  just 
now,  while  I  was  glancing  over  the  presents. 
You  told,  me,  didn't  you?"  and  she  looked 
across  her  shoulder  at  one  of  her  inseparable 
male  allies,  a  man  with  a  huge  nosegay  of 
gardenias  in  the  lapel  of  his  frock-coat. 

•The  adherent  smiled  and  nodded.  "  You 
mean  the  detective,"  he  said.  "I'm  almost 
sure  he's  one.  Anyway,  Jack  Laight  assured 
me  he  was,  and  Jack  is  a  great  collector  of 
gossip." 

Mrs.  Westerveldt  seemed  to  absorb  herself 
in  watching  Fabian.  "I've  just  been  speak- 
ing to  your  friend,  Mrs.  Atterbury,"  she 
said,  "on  the  subject  of  your  friend,  Mrs. 
Eninger." 

"Ah,"  returned  Fabian,  feeling  that  his 
cheeks  must  be  like  paper.  "  And  did  you 
hear"  (he  met  Adela  Atterbury' s  eyes,  now) 
"what  savage  things  one  excellent  woman 
is  sometimes  capable  of  saying  about 
another?" 

"By  no  means,"  began  Mrs.  Westerveldt, 


260  FABIAN    DIMITEY. 

with  her  neatest  suavity.  "The  truth  is, 
we  .  .  " 

But  Fabian  heard  no  more.  People  broke 
past  him,  going  toward  the  rich-laden  board, 
and  he  felt  pierced  by  the  sudden  sense  that 
to  stay  longer  in  this  crowded  room  might 
make  him  say  or  do  some  mad  thing.  His 
ears  rang,  his  brain  spun,  as  he  gained  the 
head  of  the  staircase. 

Where  was  Alicia?  Reaching  the  lower 
hall,  he  stood  still  for  a  moment,  eager  to 
find  her,  yet  hopeless  what  method  of  search 
to  adopt.  Then,  suddenly  but  very  quietly, 
a  hand  touched  his  shoulder.  He  recognized 
a  smooth-shaven,  decorous  face;  he  had  so 
lately  seen  it  upstairs. 

"Mrs.  Eninger  has  left  the  house  if  you  are 
looking  for  her,"  said  the  same  voice  which 
he  had  heard  so  short  a  while  ago. 

Hardly  knowing  what  he  answered,  Fabian 
returned:  "You  are  sure?  You  followed  her 
down-stairs?" 

The  babble  here  in  this  hall  was  so  great, 
and  the  music  played  so  voluminously,  near 
at  hand,  that  mighty  state-secrets  could  have 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  261 

been  talked  of  between  these  two  men  with- 
out even  a  dim  chance  of  anyone  over-hear- 
ing. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  man.  "I  saw  that 
lady  leave  the  house.  And  I've  just  whis- 
pered a  word  about  her  to  Mrs.  Van  Wage- 
nen." 

' '  Yes?    What  did  you  say?' ' 

"I  told  the  lady  of  the  house  what  I 
suspected." 

"Suspected?"  shot  back  Fabian,  catching 
at  the  word. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well  .  .  what  did  you  suspect?" 

The  man  lowered  his  eyelids  for  an  instant. 
That  "sir"  had  told  Fabian  his  place  and 
capacity  in  a  trice. 

"  I  have  my  duty  to  do,"  came  the  reply. 
"I'm  needed  upstairs  now;  I  can't  wait." 

"Yerywell.     Goon." 

"I  .  .  thought  the  lady's  dress  might 
have  caught  in  it,  and  that  it  was  swept  off 
the  table.  I  asked  her,  but  she  gave  me 
only  a  queer,  half -angry  kind  of  answer." 

"  '  It,'  you  say?    What  was  '  it '  2" 


262  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"A  small,  silver  paper-cutter,  with  some 
initials  in  diamonds.  Small,  as  I  say,  but 
very  valuable." 

Fabian  drew  a  long,  deep  breath.  "What 
did  you  see?"  he  queried,  with  one  ransack- 
ing glance  of  desperation  that  swept  the 
man's  placid  face  and  then  dropped  away 
from  it. 

Again  the  eyelids  were  lowered  for  a  sec- 
ond, and  then  lifted.  "  I  saw  nothing.  But 
the  lady  took  up  the  paper-cutter — that  I 
did  see.  Then  something  turned  my  atten- 
tion elsewhere,  and  when  I  looked  again  it 
was  gone.  It  had  a  filigreed  handle — little 
gold  flowers  that  stuck  out  from  the  solid  part 
with  stems  and  leaves,  you  understand. 
That's  why  I  thought  it  might  have  got 
fastened  to  her  frock  or  sleeves,  or  some- 
thing like  that." 

Fabian  tried  to  smile  as  if  in  contempt- 
uous disbelief.  "  It  may  be  on  the  floor 
now,"  he  said. 

"No,  sir.  I  searched;  I  searched  like  a 
ferret." 

"How  long  did  your  search  take?" 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  263 

"  Oh,  I've  got  sharp  eyes,"  said  the  man, 
with  a  bluff  ring  of  annoyance  in  his  voice — 
one  that  sounded  as  though  he  would  never 
bend  his  full-bloomed  Americanism  again 
to  the  utterance  of  another  "sir." 

"And  you  found  nothing?"  came  Fabian's 
next  words. 

"No— nothing." 

"And  you  tliink  .  .  ?"  But  Fabian 
paused,  there.  "Excuse  me,"  he  broke 
off;  "you've  seen  Mrs.  Van  Wagenen?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  told  her— what?' ' 

"What  I  suspect." 

"  You  gave  her  a  .  .  a  certain  name?" 

"  I  gave  her  Mrs.  Eninger's  name." 

"  Ah,"  exclaimed  Fabian,  with  a  low  voice 
and  yet  with  one  that  seemed  to  himself  as 
if  it  rang  from  his  heart's  bleeding  core, 
"tell  me  what  proof — what  real  proof,  did 
you  give  Mrs.  Van  Wagenen  in  return  for 
your  fancies — your  silly,  insolent,  black- 
guardly fancies?"  He  was  taller  than  his 
companion,  and  for  an  instant  glared  down 
upon  him  with  scathing  rebuke. 


264  FABIAN    DIMITEY. 

His  anger  roused  anger  in  the  man  lie 
addressed.  * '  Proof  ?' '  came  the  retort,  "  T  ve 
told  Mrs.  Yan  Wagenen  what  I  think.  / 
don' t  care.  I'  m  only  here  to  see  what  you  big 
folks  do.  You  were  close  at  her  side.  Per- 
haps you  took  it.  I  couldn't  swear.  You 
may  have.  I  didn't  ask  your  name.  I'm 
new  in  this  kind  o'  business.  I've  seen  fel- 
lows fine-looking  as  you,  that  were  .  .  " 

Fabian's  ire  was  quite  lulled.  He  broke 
away  from  the  speaker.  Luckily  there  was 
a  little  side-room,  down  here  in  this  main 
hall,  where  he  had  left  coat  and  hat.  He 
procured  both  as  quickly  as  he  could.  All 
the  while  he  felt  as  if  a  hand  were  clutch- 
ing his  arm,  a  voice  were  hissing  in  his  ear. 

He  got  out  into  the  spring  twilight.  The 
strip  of  heaven  above  the  housetops  was 
dim  and  yet  cloudless;  it  seemed  to  wait  for 
the  first  cold,  silver  advent  of  the  stars — 
"The  stars,"  flashed  through  his  mind  in  a 
vagrancy  of  musing,  "  that  shine  with  equal 
scorn  over  town  and  prairie,  telling  us  noth- 
ing .  .  nothing!" 

Half  way  in  the  direction  of  his  home,  he 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  265 

paused.  Was  that  man  following  him?  No 
.  .  he  squared  himself  and  looked  to  the 
right,  the  left,  and  searchingly  down  the 
line  of  street  he  had  just  pursued. 

"  You  were  close  at  Tier  side.  PerJiaps  you 
took  it." 

The  man  had  said  that.  Those  words  kept 
ringing  in  his  ears.  He  walked  onward,  and 
found  himself  brooding  in  a  strange,  new 
way. 

"PerJiaps  you  took  it" 

He  could  not  escape  those  few  piercing 
words.  They  haunted  him  as  he  ascended 
the  stoop  of  his  home  and  let  himself  in  with 
his  latch-key. 

A  servant  chanced  to  be  in  the  rear  part 
of  the  hall.  "  Has  Mrs.  Eninger  returned?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  came  the  answer;  "she  got 
back  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"  Is  she  upstairs?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Say  that  I  would  like  to  see  her  here- 
in the  drawing-room,  at  once.  Stay,  please." 

"Well,  sir?" 


266  FABIAN    DIMITEY. 

"  Is  Mr.  Eninger  at  home?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  All  right.     Carry  my  order." 

Fabian  went  into  the  pretty  drawing-room, 
full  of  etchings  and  tapestries  that  he  had 
helped  to  dispose.  That  task  had  been  so 
pleasant  during  recent  days.  Great  changes 
had  been  wrought  here  since  he  had  come  to 
live  with  them.  They  used  to  laugh  at  him 
and  call  him  "the  aesthete."  Alicia  would 
slip  in,  with  her  smile,  her  voice,  her  white, 
graceful,  restless  hands.  .  .  And  now!  .  . 
He  bowed  his  head.  He  had  no  tears  to 
weep — or  so  it  seemed  to  him — unless  they 
were  drops  of  blood. 

Presently  the  servant  came  back  and  said 
that  Mrs.  Eninger  was  not  very  wTell  and 
would  see  him  upstairs  in  her  dressing-room. 

"  Very  well,"  he  replied,  "  I  will  go  up." 

He  felt  much  stronger  and  firmer  as  he 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  room  where 
Alicia  sat.  He  shut  the  door  behind  him. 

"  You  were  close  at  Tier  side.  Perhaps  you 
took  it." 

How  those  words  kept  knelling  themselves 
through  his  brain! 


FABIAN    DIMITBY.  267 

Alicia  was  seated  in  an  arm-chair,  with  her 
bonnet  off  and  her  street-mantle  unbuttoned. 

Fabian  took  a  seat  at  her  side.  "You 
came  straight  home,"  he  said,  watching  her 
in  her  pallor  and  f  orlornness. 

"  Yes,  I  came  straight  home." 

"  They  know  what  you  did  there,"  he  con- 
tinued. "They  are  talking  of  it.  You  have 
been  found  out." 

She  rose  from  the  chair  and  clasped  both 
hands  together.  Then  she  suddenly  sank  at 
Fabian's  feet. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  she  murmured.  "What 
will  become  of  me?" 

He  stooped  and  raised  her  quivering  form. 
"  There,  sit  down  again,"  he  said,  "and  tell 
me  everything." 

"Everything?"  she  gasped,  looking  at  him 
with  the  dazed  stare  of  a  child  who  has  been 
caught  in  some  odious  act. 

"Yes.  You  know  what  I  mean.  Begin 
at  the  beginning  and  don't  omit  a  detail. 
Won't  you  consent  to  this?" 

She  did  not  at  once  reply,  but  soon  her 
voice  faltered  "  yes."  She  had  clasped  her 


268  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

hands  again;  her  head  was  bent,  and  as  she 
continued  to  speak  he  observed  that  it  swayed 
slightly  from  side  to  side.  The  voice  that 
she  used  wTas  her  own  inalienably  lovely  one. 
How  sad  to  hear  its  familiar  music  enfold 
the  confession  that  now  came  from  her! 

"I  first  had  the  desire  in  London,  a  year 
or  two  before  we  were  married.  It  came 
upon  me  at  a  shop  in  Bond  Street;  the  things 
were  all  of  ivory  and  very  nice;  it  was  near 
Christmas.  I  was  horrified  at  myself  and 
spent  several  hours  in  tears,  thinking  over 
my  narrow  escape.  For  the  impulse  had 
been  almost  ungovernable.  If  another  re- 
turned to  me,  what  should  I  do  hereafter? 
It  was  not  that  I  did  not  loathe  the  thought 
of  being  a  thief,  or  that  I  craved  the  mere 
possession  of  things  which  did  not  belong  to 
me.  It  was  wholly  different  from  all  that. 
.  .  I  can't  explain  it;  I've  tortured  myself 
trying  to  explain  it,  but  I've  never  succeeded. 
I've  prayed,  for  hours  at  a  time,  to  be  deliv- 
ered from  the  temptation,  the  curse,  the 
malady.  With  tears  streaming  down  my 
cheeks  I've  prayed!  But  God  has  never 


FABIAX    DIMITRY.  269 

heard  me.  I  wanted  to  tell  Ray  after  I  first 
lost  control.  It  was  not  till  I'd  married  him 
and  come  here.  It  was  one  evening  at  a 
supper  given  after  a  theatre-party  by  Mrs. 
Gansevoort.  You  recall  it,  don't  you?  You 
were  there.  I  was  left  alone  for  a  few  minutes 
near  a  little  table  loaded  with  pretty  things. 
I  .  .  I  took — you  said  you  wanted  me  not 
to  omit  a  detail,"  she  broke  off,  and  lifted 
to  him  the  humid  blue  of  her  glittering 
eyes. 

"  Not  one — not  one,"  he  answered. 

Then  she  went  on.  He  heard  it  all.  It 
was  sickening,  yet  it  tore  his  heart  with  pity 
for  her. 

At  last  he  said,  while  she  sat  before  him 
choked  and  shuddering: 

"You've  told  everything,  have  you  not? 
There's  nothing  more?" 

"Nothing,"  she  sobbed.  Her  confession 
had  terribly  racked  her.  His  vast  compas- 
sion made  him  almost  reel  as  he  now  rose. 
He  had  the  yearning  to  seize  her  in  his  arms 
and  comfort  her  for  the  anguish  that  he  was 
certain  she  felt— the  anguish  born  of  a  hor- 


270  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

rible  conscious  madness,  inflicted  on  her  by 
the  fierce  hand  of  heredity,  reaching  from 
her  dead  ancestors'  graves. 

But  he  spoke  very  quietly  while  standing 
beside  her.  "Will  you  get  me  everything 
you  have  taken — everything,  mind?  Will 
you  put  all  into  a  package  and  leave  them 
in  my  room  as  soon  as  you  can?  Will  you 
do  this?  Do  you  understand  me  perfectly?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  again 
in  her  despair. 

He  knotted  his  hands,  that  he  might  keep 
from  rushing  toward  her  and  putting  them 
about  her  neck.  He  had  loved  her  so  pro- 
foundly— he  loved  her  so  profoundly  still! 
Had  she  not  once  been  his  idol,  his  sweet- 
heart, his  delight?  And  from  then  till  now 
had  his  love  ever  lessened  or  faded?  Was  it 
not  because  of  this  very  madness  in  her 
(possible  then,  tangible  and  fearful  now!) 
that  he  had  renounced  her,  given  her  up  for 
another  to  woo  and  win? 

Again  he  spoke  with  calmness.  "You 
must  try  and  compose  yourself.  It  still 
wants  nearly  an  hour  of  dinner-time.  When 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  271 

Ray  returns  I  hope  you  will  meet  him  with- 
out agitation.  And  remember  about  the 
package.  I  will  do  all  I  can  for  you.  Every- 
thing may  not  be  lost  yet.  You  have  been 
ill — very  ill,  and  neither  Ray  nor  I  suspected. 
But  there  is  still  hope." 

"Hope?"  she  murmured. 

"Yes.  Things  might  be  worse  for  you 
than  they  are.  And  in  a  little  while  you 
will  be  cared  for  as  you  should  have  been 
cared  for  if  we  had  only  guessed  sooner." 

Still  once  more  she  swept  his  face  with  her 
dolorous  eyes.  '  'Oh,  God  bless  you!"  she  said. 
"  You  call  it  an  illness,  but  many  people  will 
not  allow  that  it  is.  I  shall  be  steeped  in 
disgrace,  even  if  I'm  not  dragged  to  prison. 
And  Ray — poor  Ray!  It  will  be  so  horrible 
for  him!  But  then  you  say  everything  may 
not  be  lost  yet?  What  do  you  mean  by  that? 
What  do  you  mean  by  saying  there  is  still 
hope,  and  that  things  might  be  worse  for  me 
than  they  are?" 

He  went  closer  to  her  and  let  his  hand  fall 
on  her  arm.  "I  mean  to  do  my  very  best, 
Alicia,"  he  said.  She  started  a  little  at  hear- 

18 


272  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

ing  him  pronounce  her  name;  she  had  not 
heard  it  from  his  lips  since  the  old  days 
when  they  were  betrothed  lovers.  He  caught 
one  of  her  hands  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips 
passionately,  twice,  thrice.  Then  a  flush 
mantled  his  face,  as  though  of  sharp  shame. 
He  turned  away  and  hurried  toward  the 
door.  "  Remember  your  promise,"  he  said, 
just  before  passing  from  the  room. 

She  did  not  see  the  great  melancholy  in 
his  look  as  these  words  left  him. 

He  soon  went  out  of  doors  into  the  windy 
spring  twilight,  and  presently  a  cab  was 
taking  him  to  the  house  of  Mrs.  Atterbury. 

She  had  just  dismissed  her  carriage  and 
was  entering  her  own  doorway,  when  he 
alighted  from  his  vehicle.  By  a  glance 
across  her  shoulder  she  recognized  him. 

"I  thought  you  would  probably  come," 
she  said,  low  of  voice,  as  they  stood  in  the 
hall  together.  And  then  she  added:  "  Even 
though  you  did  leave  me  in  so  savage  a  mood 
when  we  last  met." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  followed  her  into 
the  reception-room  just  off  the  hall,  where 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  273 

two  or  three  lamps  had  been  lighted,  big, 
rich-lmed  stars  in  the  partial  dusk. 

They  seated  themselves.  She  loosened  her 
bonnet-strings  and  tossed  her  bonnet  on  a 
near  chair.  Just  as  she  did  so  he  began  to 
speak. 

"Call  my  mood  savage,  if  you  please. 
Yours  had  surely  been  .  .  accusative.  But  I 
came  to  ask  you — 

"About  Tier"  struck  in  his  hearer,  not 
harshly,  yet  in  a  way  that  lacked  all  native 
warmth.  "  I  was  prepared  for  that."  And 
then,  with  a  suddenly  hardening  face,  she 
proceeded  in  the  manner  that  he  had  often 
known  her  to  employ  when  most  earnest — 
the  manner  that  some  people  termed  rowdy, 
as  it  has  been  recorded:  "On  my  word  of 
honor  I'm  sorry  I  told  you  that  you  lied  to 
save  her.  But  good  heavens,  hasn't  to-day 
proved  it?" 

"Proved  it?"  he  said,  pale  to  the  lips,  as 
she  looked  at  him.  ' '  Did  the  Van  Wagenen 
policeman  prove  it?  No;  he  did  not.  He 
told  me,  in  so  many  words,  that  he  could 
not." 


274  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

Mrs.  Atterbury'  s  eyes  flashed.  ' '  He  didn'  t 
search  her,  if  you  mean  that,  you  .  .  you 
madman!" 

He  laughed,  and  at  once  exclaimed :  ' '  Mad- 
man? Oh,  yes,  you're  no  doubt  right.  I 
dare  say  I  am  a  madman." 

"Why,  what  else  can  you  be,"  came  her 
swift,  defiant  answer,  "when  you  presume 
to  tell  me  that  she  didn' t  show  this  evening 
every  sign  of  guilt?  He  went  to  Mrs.  Van 
Wagenen,  that  man;  he  let  her  know  just 
what  had  happened.  I  saw  her  afterward; 
so  did  Mrs.  Westerveldt.  She  was  furious. 
You'll  hear  from  her  to-morrow,  I  suppose. 
Not  you,  of  course,  but  your  people — your 
family— the  household  you've  been  wise  and 
sane  enough  to  make  yourself  a  part  of. 
Look  here,  now,  Fabian  Dimitry,  I  don't 
mean  one  grain  of  malice.  But  oTt,  how 
you've  been  fooled  by  that  woman!  Ger- 
trude Westerveldt  is  sick  with  disgust  at 
her.  It  was  funny — it  almost  made  me  laugh 
right  out,  serious  as  I  felt— to  think  of  Ger- 
trude and  me  ever  putting  our  heads  together 
and  actually  agreeing  on  any  one  earthly  sub- 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  275 

ject.  But  gracious  goodness,  man,  I  found 
Gertrude  had  missed  a  turquoise  ring  off  her 
dressing-table  one  night  when  your  paragon 
had  dined  at  her  house  and  had  afterward 
stood  close  to  the  very  spot  where  the  ring 
was  laid.  But  bless  you,  this  wasn't  all. 
Gertrude  dropped  on  the  floor,  at  another 
time,  a  little  spray  of  diamonds  when  she 
was  upstairs  with  my  lady  Eninger  after  a 
dinner  at  her  own  home  in  Forty -Second 
Street.  And  this  cousin  of  mine  (whom  I 
don't  like,  as  I'm  sure  you  know,  but  whom 
I've  never  caught  in  a  falsehood  as  long  as 
we've  gone  on  mutually  hating  one  another) 
declares  that  she  had  reason  to  feel  almost 
certain  her  jewel  was  impudently  pocketed 
there  before  her  very  eyes." 

"Reason  to  feel  almost  certain?"  said 
Fabian.  "  The  '  almost '  has  been  discreetly 
used  by  Mrs.  Westerveldt.  It  is  the  same, 
no  doubt,  as  your  'almost  certain,'  on 
another  occasion,  when  you  opened  that  cab- 
inet of  curios." 

"Ah,"  cried  Mrs.  Atterbuiy,  springing  to 
her  feet,  "  this  is  preposterous!" 


276  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

"I  think  it  so,  too,"  returned  Fabian, 
slowly  rising. 

She  spoke  in  a  half -strangled  voice.  "  Do 
you  mean  still  to  claim  that  the  woman's 
innocent?  Do  you  mean  to  stick  up  for  her 
innocence  now,  when  we  three  (Mrs.  Van 
Wagenen,  Gertrude  and  I)  are  all  prepared 
to  bring  charges  against  her?" 

He  inclined  his  head  as  if  in  sarcastic 
assent.  "  So  you've  decided  to  do  that?" 

"Yes — we  have!  The  whole  thing  is  a 
glaring  outrage,  and  should  be  suppressed, 
punished." 

"  You've  taken  your  course,  then?" 

"Mrs.  Van  Wagenen  has.  You'll  hear 
from  her  quite  soon,  and  she  has  been  given 
full  authority  to  use  our  names." 

"I  see,"  said  Fabian;  "it's  gone  thart 
far." 

"  Yes,"  retorted  the  little  lady,  trembling 
with  wrath.  "  It  has  gone  that  far,  and  we 
mean  it  shall  go  further." 

"  Ah,  you  mean  this,  do  you?"  .  .  Some- 
thing in  his  intonation  made  her  look  at  him 
with  surprise  breaking  through  her  anger. 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  277 

"Have  you  considered  certain  points  of 
this  case?"  he  went  on,  with  a  voice  bell- 
like,  vibrant,  and  yet  oddly  opposite  to  his 
wonted  tones.  "  Have  you  recollected  that 
Mrs.  Westerveldt  discharged  her  maid  for 
stealing  the  turquoise  ring  you  have  men- 
tioned? I  chance  to  know  that  this  is  true, 
for  the  maid  brought  suit  against  her  former 
mistress,  and  I  saw  a  notice  of  the  expected 
legal  proceedings  in  a  newspaper  of  eight  or 
ten  days  ago.  Now  the  maid  may  be  guilty 
or  the  reverse:  that  remains  to  be  shown.  But 
Mrs.  Westerveldt,  in  accusing  her,  has  made 
it  plain  that  she  thinks  the  maid  guilty. 
'Oh,  very  well,'  you  may  say,  'but  there 
were  other  things  taken  besides  the  tur- 
quoise ring,  and  there  were  other  times  of 
alleged  theft  on  the  part  of  her  we  think  the 
thief.'  Very  good.  Count  over  those  times; 
consider  them.  You'  11  find  they  all  have  one 
point  in  common." 

"One  point  in  common.  I  don't  under- 
stand. Do  you  mean  that  they  were  all 
brazen  acts?" 

* '  I  mean  this :  that  whenever  you  suspected 


278  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

Alicia  Eninger  /  was  somewhere  near  her.  .  . 
Ah,  now  I  perceive  that  you  do  under- 
stand." 

He  walked  toward  the  hall  in  another 
minute,  and  looked  at  her  across  his  shoulder. 
He  gave  her,  as  it  were,  a  smile  of  farewell; 
but  the  smile  teemed  with  a  terrible  mock- 
ery and  despair. 

"\t  can't  be  true,"  she  broke  out,  "that 
you're  willing — No!  no!"  And  she  hurried 
after  him  through  the  portiere  whose  folds 
were  still  agitated  from  his  exit. 

But  he  had  already  caught  up  his  hat  from 
a  table  in  the  hall,  and  now  he  seized  the  knob 
of  the  front  door. 

"Fabian!"  she  exclaimed,  at  this  point. 

"Well?"  he  returned,  pausing  and  looking 
at  her. 

"  Will  you  throw  your  honor  to  the  dogs 
just  to  save  that  worthless  creature?" 

"  She  is  innocent,"  he  said,  his  voice  not 
raised  in  the  least,  yet  his  mien  simply  impe- 
rial through  its  challenging  denial.  "  These 
charges  have  been  brought  against  the  wrong 
person." 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  279 

"  And  the  right  one  is  .  .  ?" 

"Myself." 

He  at  once  opened  the  door  and  disap- 
peared. Mrs.  Atterbury  went  back  into  the 
reception-room  and  for  some  little  time  she 
sat  quite  still,  except  that  now  and  then  she 
visibly  shuddered. 

If  he  had  sworn  to  her  a  hundred  times 
what  he  had  just  stated,  and  sworn  it  each 
time  with  some  new  and  very  sacred  oath, 
she  would  not  have  believed  him.  Of  course 
it  was  untrue. .  And  the  madness  of  him,  to 
take  that  awful  burden  on  his  shoulders! 
Had  not  this  wily  woman  already  cost  him 
enough  pain?  That  she  should  drag  him  now 
into  self-ruin  was  monstrous,  incredible. 

The  tears  stole  to  Adela  Atterbury' s  eyes, 
and  by  and  by  her  sobs  followed.  She  sat 
there  and  wept  in  the  soft  lustre  of  the 
lamps.  At  the  same  time  a  cold  fear  was 
slipping  about  her  heart,  like  some  chill  tide 
that  creeps  round  a  stranded  shell. 

Whatever  Fabian  Dimitry  had  resolved  on 
he  would  carry  out.  She  knew  him  well 
enough  to  be  certain  that  if  he  had  clearly 


280  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

determined  to  damn  himself  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world  he  would  take  care  that  this  dam- 
nation should  be  accomplished  after  no 
bungling  fashion. 

Her  hardy  nature  for  once  recoiled  before 
the  threatened  purpose  of  another,  and 
recoiled  in  a  paralysis  of  dismay.  What 
expedient  of  preventive  could  she  light  on? 
Would  to-morrow  bring  any?  No;  for  the 
man's  insensate  devotion  would  prove  not 
less  strong  than  the  passion  that  inspired  it. 

"If  Lewsy  should  come  in  and  find  me 
here  like  this,"  she  thought,  "and  if  I 
should  tell  him  who's  forced  these  tears  from 
me,  wouldn't  he  for  once  in  our  married  life 
be  downright  jealous?" 

Oddly  enough,  and  yet  as  many  a  woman 
will  do  under  like  mental  siege,  she  let  this 
wholly  foreign  idea  of  "Lewsy"  drift  through 
her  preoccupied  brain. 

But  she  was  doubtless  quite  wrong.  Lewsy 
would  not  have  dreamed  of  being  jealous. 
He  would  probably  have  confided  to  some 
Wall  Street  friend,  as  they  lunched  at  the 
Beaver  Street  Delmonico's  next  day,  that 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  281 

"My  wife,  by  Jove,  has  got  one  of  the 
biggest  and  most  sympathetic  hearts  in 
America!" 

He  would  have  vaunted  her  heart,  poor 
Lewsy,  as  he  vaunted  everything  she  pos- 
sessed, from  the  trim  of  her  wit  to  the  cut  of 
her  finger-nail.  Happy  the  husband  who 
believes  that  he  holds  the  lounging-room  in 
that  mystic  domicile,  his  wife's  affection, 
and  who  has  not  yet  convinced  himself  that 
this  haunt  of  ease  is  but  a  deftly-uphol- 
stered ante-chamber! 


282  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 


XIV. 

"  I  thought  you  were  Ray,"  said  the  Col- 
onel to  Fabian,  as  the  latter  passed  toward 
his  own  room  along  an  upper  hall.  "  Bless 
me,  what  is  keeping  dinner  from  being 
served?1' 

"Are  you  hungry?"  said  Fabian,  passing 
the  speaker  and  scarcely  knowing  what  reply 
he  gave. 

"Am  I  hungry!"  gruffly  exploded  the  Col- 
onel. "  What  an  American  sort  of  answer!" 
He  stood  with  eye-glasses  poised  in  one  hand, 
gazing  after  the  friend  of  his  son-in-law. 

"But  it  only  confirms  my  already  fixed 
creed — for  the  people  of  this  queer  land  din- 
ner has  no  sanctity,  none  whatever!  They 
do  not  dine;  they  feed — often  with  haphazard 
haste  and  seldom  with  either  punctuality  or 
dignity." 

Fabian  failed  to  hear  these  last  withering 
words.  He  entered  his  own  room,  and  at 


FABIAN    DIMITKY.  283 

once  his  eye  lit  on  an  expected  package. 
Locking  himself  against  intrusion,  he  opened 
it.  The  contents,  having  been  eagerly  sur- 
veyed, stung  and  racked  him.  Alicia  had 
kept  her  word.  The  turquoise  ring  was 
here,  and  this  he  trod  into  an  almost  shape- 
less mass  as  soon  as  he  had  found  it.  Then 
he  opened  the  window  and  flung  down  into 
the  street  the  tiny  golden  wreck  thus  wrought. 
Scarcely  had  he  done  so,  when  Eninger 
knocked  at  his  door.  u  Fabian,"  soon  came 
the  anxious  question,  "  can  you  tell  me  what 
has  made  Alicia  so  forlorn?1'  As  he  spoke 
thus,  Eninger  crossed  the  threshold,  with 
head  somewhat  bowed  and  hands  locked 
behind  him.  "I  returned  home  a  little 
while  ago,"  he  went  on,  "  and  was  amazed  at 
meeting  her.  She  is  very  feeble  in  strength, 
and  hysterical  in  behavior.  Has  anything 
occurred  this  afternoon  at  the  Van  Wagen- 
ens'  which  could  possibly  have  unnerved  her 
like  this?" 

Fabian  seemed  lost  in  thought.  Then  his 
reverie  gave  place  to  a  sudden  ardor.  ' '  Oh, 
my  poor  Ray,"  he  said,  "a  great  deal  has 


284  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

happened  that  you  know  nothing  of — 
nothing!  Would  to  heaven  I  could  shirk 
the  telling  of  it!  .  .  There,  sit  down — pray 
sit  down  and  hear. me.  I  must  say  certain 
things.  You've  never  dreamed  of  what  I 
must  explain  to  you.  Ray,  believe  me,  it 
will  hit  you  hard.  It  will  be  all  the  worse  to 
a  sensitive  and  fastidious  fellow  like  you. 
Ray!  you  will  prove  a  man,  won't  you, 
while  I  tell  it?" 

He  had  pushed  Eninger  into  a  chair,  and 
now  stood  over  him  with  a  hand  on  each  of 
his  shoulders.  Eninger,  grown  very  pale, 
simply  nodded  and  said: 

"Well.  .  .  It  concerns  Tier,  of  course." 

"Yes."  .  .  And  then,  for  what  may  have 
been  ten  full  minutes,  Fabian  spoke.  Once 
or  twice  the  auditor  closed  his  eyes  and 
palpably  trembled.  At  these  times  Fabian 
would  seize  his  hand,  briefly  but  forcibly 
pressing  it. 

Then,  at  last,  there  was  dead  silence. 
Fabian  waited  to  be  answered.  Eninger 
looked  like  a  man  to  whom  the  utterance  of 
even  one  word  would  be  crucial.  Still,  he 
presently  replied: 


FABIAN  DIMITRY.  285 

"How  ghastly  it  all  sounds!  .  .  Ah,  my 
friend,  you  are  avenged  for  the  way  I 
behaved  to  you  in  London!" 

"Hush,  Kay.  It  is  ghastly,  but  there's 
this  about  it — you  can  pardon  her." 

"Pardon  her?" 

"  The  curse  of  an  inherited  madness?  Why 
not?  It  has  been  kleptomania;  it  might  have 
been  one  of  a  hundred  cerebral  ills.  And 
Ray,  consider  this:  you  know,  now,  what  it 
is,  and  can  fight  it." 

"Fight  it?" 

"  To  the  death.  Take  her  away  for  a  year 
at  least.  Watch  her  with  one  absorbing 
aim.  Set  yourself  a  task  in  the  crystal  air 
of  some  quiet  mountain  retreat,  and  vow 
that  love  shall  tear  victory  from  science. 
Send  the  Colonel  back  to  England;  do  not 
permit  yourself  a  single  emotion  that  does 
not  relate  to  her  cure.  In  the  end  you  will 
conquer;  she  will  be  restored  to  you,  her  sane 
and  lovely  self." 

"  Restored  to  me!"  Eninger  broke  out,  in 
bitterness.  "And  how?  Disgraced  before  the 
world — branded  by  a  stigma  ineffaceable!" 


286  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

' '  Not  so,  Ray.  I  .  .  I  have  thought  of  a 
certain  method  by  which  all  that  may  be 
avoided." 

"  What  can  you  mean?  Avoided?  Why, 
haven't  you  already  told  me  that  this  horror 
is  being  babbled  about?' ' 

"  Suspicions  have  sprung  up;  they  can  be 
refuted.  I've  a  plan,  Ray,  and  1  want  to 
act  it  out.  To-night  I  shall  be  busy  think- 
ing it  over.  To-morrow  you  and  I  will  talk 
of  it,  definitely,  in  detail.  Meanwhile,  do 
all  that  you  can  for  her;  watch  her  with 
your  best  professional  caution;  but  don't 
show  her  the  faintest  sign,  as  yet,  that 
you've  heard  these  unhappy  truths  about 
her." 

"Your  plan  is  but  a  dream,  I'm  sure," 
said  Eninger,  whose  face  already  looked 
ravaged  by  agony.  "I  thank  you  for  the 
great-heartedness  that  has  prompted  you  to 
imagine  it,  but — 

"No,  Ray;  imagination  is  not  all  of  it,  I 
promise  you!  Trust  me  till  to-morrow!"  .  . 

But  Eninger' s  thoughts  were  of  Gertrude 
Westerveldt  and  the  scornful  hints  he  had 


FAI3IAX    DIM1TKY.  287 

heard  from  her  in  their  last  interview.  He 
read  the  real  meaning  of  those  hints  now, 
but  in  this  new  guise  they  made  him  discern 
how  implacable  a  cruelty  that  woman  might 
be  prepared  to  reveal. 

"Trust  me  till  to-morrow,"  nevertheless 
rang  comfortingly  in  his  ears  as  he  passed 
from  Fabian's  room  to  rejoin  his  wife.  Ah, 
why  should  he  not  strive  to  trust  so  peerless  a 
friend  as  this  man  had  already  proved  him- 
self? Where  was  there  such  wisdom  blended 
with  such  benignancy?  Did  he  ever  counsel 
at  random,  and  was  there  not  a  constant 
sweet  premeditation  in  all  his  deeds,  as 
though  even  a  spirit  so  capable  of  sacrifice 
knew  how  to  temper  its  generosity  with  a 
telling  leaven  of  prudence? 

Fabian,  left  alone,  went  to  his  writing-desk 
and  seated  himself  before  it.  A  servant  soon 
came  to  tell  him  that  dinner  waited,  but  he 
shrank  from  food  as  though  in  this  case  it 
meant  to  sit  at  meat  with  the  Borgias. 
Neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Eninger,  the  servant 
told  him,  had  yet  appeared  in  the  dining- 
room;  but  the  Colonel  had  appeared  there 
and  had  begun  to  dine. 


288  FABIAN    DIMITKY. 

A  grim  picture  of  this  personage  thrust 
itself  into  Fabian's  fancy.  "How  savage 
and  gaunt  the  old  fellow  must  look,"  it 
floated  through  his  mind,  "seated  down 
there  sipping  his  soup  in  '  ancient,  solitary 
reign' !  If  one  really  had  the  heart  to  break 
bread  with  him,  what  an  uncanny  fellow- 
feaster  would  he  seem!" 

For  a  good  while  after  the  servant  had 
gone  from  him,  Fabian  sat  musing  over 
certain  letters  which  he  desired  to  write. 
Addressed  to  several  different  persons,  these 
letters  must  all  be  in  the  form  of  guilty  con- 
fessions and  be  also  the  premonitions  of  a 
determined  flight.  They  would  not  be  sent 
until  he  had  made  arrangements  of  another 
and  a  financial  sort.  Ray  should  receive  a 
certain  share  of  his  property;  the  rest  he 
would  take  with  him  into  Brazil.  His 
departure  would  shine  balefully  as  an  admis- 
sion of  personal  shame.  Each  article  stolen 
by  Alicia  he  would  return  to  its  rightful 
possessor,  with  the  statement  that  he  had 
been  the  thief  of  it,  not  she.  At  first  he 
might  not  be  credited.  But  afterward  .  . 


FABIAN    DIMITRY.  289 

Somehow  his  broodings,  while  he  sat  and 
gave  them  sway,  had  caught  the  trick  of 
pausing  just  there. 

Would  people,  even  eventually,  believe 
him;!  Would  they  not  say  .  .  2 — Ah,  how 
this  "  plan"  to  which  he  had  lately  referred 
with  such  confidence  in  the  hearing  of  Enin- 
ger,  now  became  engirt  with  chances  of  fail- 
ure! He  had  not  seen  them  until  to-night, 
when  they  slipped  their  cold  little  pleas  and 
protests  into  his  consciousness.  That  re- 
solved flight  of  his  might  accomplish  nothing 
for  her.  It  might  be  named  the  mere  flimsy 
scheme  of  a  love-sick  worshiper. 

But  .  .  was  there  any  other  way? 

He  rose,  pushing  aside  some  sheets  of  note- 
paper  on  whose  blankness  he  had  not  yet 
left  a  single  line.  The  desire  beset  him  to 
think  while  walking  in  the  open  air.  He 
passed  down-stairs,  finding  the  two  halls 
which  he  traversed  quite  vacant  and  still. 

Once  out  in  the  street,  he  discovered  that 
all  harsh  weather-signs  had  fled  and  that 
the  town  was  canopied  by  one  of  those  mild 
yet  limpid  nights  which  bring  the  infinite 


290  FABIAN    DIMITRY. 

nearer  to  man  He  walked  slowly  along, 
letting  his  eyes  again  and  again  roam  the 
star-studded  slopes  of  heaven.  Creation, 
how  monstrous  it  was! — we,  its  products  yet 
its  puny  minions,  how  piteously  we  compared 
with  it!  And  yet  the  whole  terrible  scheme 
of  the  universe  might  be,  and  doubtless  was, 
a  mere  sightless,  mute,  self-moving  force. 
It  had  created  Jupiter  and  Canopus — one  of 
a  million  giant  planets,  one  of  a  million 
giant  suns.  But  from  its  mystic  funds  had 
also  sprung  a  power,  an  efflorescence,  grander 
though  subtler  than  these.  Love  had  been 
born  thence — human  love,  with  all  its  base 
leases  and  costs,  with  all  its  high  restraints 
and  rewards.  Did  not  he  who  loves  unself- 
ishly fling  in  the  teeth  of  death  a  divine 
challenge*  No  matter  if  he  perished  eter- 
nally when  the  last  breath  left  his  lips.  In 
the  future  making  of  men  his  example 
should  lind  its  inevitable  place.  Like  the 
breaking  of  a  huge  wave  far  out  at  sea,  it 
would  shape  ripples  that  must  mingle  with 
the  tides  of  distant  coasts. 

To  sacrifice  one's  self  wholly  for  a  pure 


FABIAX    DIMITRY.  291 

love<  Was  it  so  hard,  after  all,  that  the 
world  should  laud  it  as  so  lofty?  .  .  This 
Hying  in  hypocritic  cowardice  of  guilt  to 
Brazil,  to  Heaven  knew  where  .  .  how  could 
such  course  actually  end  but  with  the  entail 
of  sluggish,  dragging  misery?  And  then  the 
possible  meagreness  of  the  proffered  help! 
How  that  result  would  degrade,  belittle, 
minimize  the  whole  deed!  Dying  to  save 
one  we  love  were  an  act  that  might  set 
the  bounds  for  its  own  dignity.  Merely 
lying  from  the  same  motive  would  be  to 
build  defences  round  loopholes  tempting  the 
ingress  of  ridicule! 

.  .  .  When  Fabian  went  back  to  his  home, 
that  night,  the  hour  was  a  little  past  eleven, 
and  the  house  no  less  dark  than  quiet.  He 
went  down  to  the  door  of  Eningers  office  on 
the  basement-floor.  Vacancy  and  gloom 
here;  he  had  expected — feared,  indeed — to 
find  his  friend  seated  in  this  familiar  room. 
With  the  aid  of  his  own  match-box  he  lit  a 
jet  of  gas.  The  rays  appeared  to  focus  them- 
selves on  a  uniform  row  of  phials  that  filled 
one  special  shelf.  Only  such  a  little  time 


292  FABIAN   DIMITRY. 

ago  lie  and  Eninger  had  had  a  certain  toxo- 
logic  talk,  and  then  .  .  .  But  no  matter; 
there  was  what  he  wished;  its  dark  little 
labelled  cube  gleamed  as  harmless  as  if 
brimming  with  juices  brewed  from  violets. 
...  He  presently  turned  off  the  gas  and 
went  upstairs.  In  the  dimness,  while  paus- 
ing at  a  particular  door,  he  heard  the  sound 
of  voices.  Hating  to  listen,  he  nevertheless 
did  so  now.  "  For  this  once  in  my  life,''  he 
said  to  himself,  sworn  foe  as  he  had  always 
been  of  every  act  which  the  least  taint  of 
meanness  could  soil. 

"I  have  not  once  dreamed  of  blaming 
you,"  he  heard  Eninger  say.  '-I  blame 
only  myself,  for  not  having  surmised  how 
ill  you  really  were.  .  .  You  speak  of  Fa- 
bian; he  has  some  strange  conviction  that  he 
can  arrest  the  scandal.  Had  anyone  but 
himself  told  me  of  such  a  purpose  I  would 
simply  have  felt  its  entire  hopelessness. 
But  he,  so  trustworthy  and  so  capable  .  . 
perhaps  he  may  have  found  a  way,  after 
all." 

Fabian  moved  toward  his  own  room .   ' '  You 


FABIAN  DIMITRY.  293 

are  right,"  lie  said  to  himself,  in  a  soft  whis- 
per; "I  have  found  a  way." 

For  several  hours  he  wrote  letters.  Each 
was  a  confession  of  personal  guilt  and  yet  a 
declaration  as  well  that  an  unconquerable 
insanity  had  caused  him  to  behave  as  he  had 
done.  He  mentioned  the  suspicions  formed 
against  Alicia  as  hideous  injustice,  and  stated 
that  more  than  once  he  had  tried  to  make  it 
seem  as  if  she  were  the  real  culprit. 

These  letters  were  terribly  ingenious,  and 
to  each  he  attached  a  small  packet  contain- 
ing one  or  more  of  the  stolen  objects.  Every 
letter,  too,  contained  the  assertion  that  when 
its  pages  were  read  by  the  eyes  for  which 
they  were  intended  he  should  have  ceased 
to  live. 

All  was  now  performed  except  one  final 
task — his  letter  to  Ray  Eninger.  This  he 
took  a  long  time  to  write,  and  filled  with  the 
burning  eloquence  of  entreaty.  He  implored 
Eninger  to  let  the  true  reason  of  his  deed 
remain,  forever  wrapped  in  secrecy.  He 
assured  him  that  no  reluctance  went  with  it 
—that  it  seemed  to  him  then,  at  that  mid- 


294  FABIAN    DIMITKY. 

night  hour,  like  a  beautiful  and  luminous 
pathway  which  tempted  him  to  follow  it 
toward  some  holy  but  unimagined  goal. 

"There  may  be,  at  the  first,"  he  wrote, 
"a  faint  flurry  of  skepticism.  But  after  a 
while  the  whole  world  will  feel  certain  I 
have  taken  my  own  life  with  a  most  explain- 
able motive.  .  .  Adela  Atterbury  will  have 
her  burst  of  indignant  denial,  her  sense  of 
outraged  credulity.  But  with  her,  as  with 
Mrs.  Westerveldt,  there  will  come  in  time 
an  acceptance  of  the  general  verdict.  Be  it 
your  i>art  never  to  divulge  the  truth,  and  to 
destroy  these  lines  within  the  hour  of  read- 
ing them. 

"And  now  farewell,  my  friend.  Long 
years  of  happiness  and  health  to  you  and 
to  her.  You  know  we  never  believed  in 
'visions,'  you  and  I.  And  yet  I  seem  to 
be  visited,  at  this  moment,  by  a  vision  of 
your  perfect  future  joy.  Feeling  oneself 
on  the  threshold  of  death,  as  I  feel  myself 
now,  one  has  the  impression  of  mighty  dra- 
peries being  grasped  by  some  great  dusky 
hand  and  lifted  upon  new  yet  awful  tracts 


FABIAX    DIMITRY.  295 

of  shadow.  How  often  have  we  spoken  of 
death  together!  You  recall  that  I  always 
told  you  I  had  no  fear  to  push  my  keel  out 
into  the  icy  silence  of  those  waters  \  Well, 
the  hour  of  embarkation  and  of  mysterious 
voyage  has  begun  with  me.  and  I  still  have 
no  fear — none,  not  the  vaguest  qualm.  But 
I  am  haunted  by  an  irresistible  and  unfore- 
seen hope.  Some  might  call  it  a  prescience; 
I  have  always  been  wary  of  those  wide- 
sweeping  words.  But  the  chief  element  of 
my  hope  is  a  longing  that  I  may  see  your 
perfect  contentment  and  hers  from  some 
unguessed  bourne  of  spiritual  vantage.  .  . 
My  will,  as  I  wrote  pages  back,  was  made 
weeks  ago  in  your  favor.  There  will  be  no 
contention  of  it,  since  I  am  quite  kinless  in 
so  far  as  I  know,  and  the  claim  of  any 
remote  relative  would  rightly  be  judged 
absurd.  Besides,  I  think,  not  even  such  a 
claimant  as  that  could  arise.  Strangely 
enough,  I  seem  to  find  myself  the  last  sur- 
vivor of  two  races.  With  me  both  lines 
melt  into  extinction.  Non  omnis  mortar,  let 
me  add.  Will  not  you  say  '  amen '  to  that? 


296  FABIAN   DIMITRY. 

Perhaps  not  now;  but  some  future  day  shall 
teach  you  to  speak  the  words  without  sor- 
row, and  with  moderation,  not  overplus,  of 
thanks.  .  . 

''After  all,  there  are  some  superstitions 
that  do  us  good.  Cherish  this  one: — that  in 
dying  I  take  away  her  curse.  It  is  pretty, 
is  it  not?  Cling  to  it  if  you  can."  .  .  .  " 


In  the  morning  when  they  knocked  at  his 
door  there  came  the  silence  that  made  them 
knock  louder,  and  at  length  the  silence  that 
sanctioned  rude  entrance. 

He  lay  as  if  he  slept.  But  his  extreme 
pallor  sublimated  the  beauty  of  his  brow 
and  temples,  and  clad  his  pure-carven  lips 
with  some  delicate  mingling  of  sadness  and 
peace  which  was  like  a  tangible  echo  of  the 
word  "death." 


THE   END. 


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